


Actus me invito factus non est meus actus

by XCuteAsHale



Series: Actus me invito factus non est meus actus [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU within an AU, Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Sex, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Catatonic Stiles Stilinski (Temporarely), Depression, End of the World, Hints at Chris/Stiles, Knotting, M/M, Memories, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Temporary Character Death, alternative universe, shifting pov, suicidal ideations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6376294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XCuteAsHale/pseuds/XCuteAsHale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had never been more grateful for coach’s suicide runs before, back then all he could think of was how much he wanted it to end, but now, he couldn’t afford to think like that. He had promised his dad that he would make it, when he fell, and Stiles was the one clutching his hands, he promised. So now he was running, because no one ever told you how the world truly would end, no one described the madness and the chaos so… Mad and chaotic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Actus me invito factus non est meus actus

**Author's Note:**

> Well. To be completely honest, I really don't know how to explain this fic. Mostly it came as an idea that just wouldn't leave my head: "What if you got transported from this world, into one with A/O/B-dynamics?" And this was the result. Or, some of the result. 
> 
> It mostly came to life by my lovely best friend, and kinda-wifey's, continued pestering and bothering, as well as my promise to actually write this thing. So here you have it, dear, it's published. Now I have to finish it.
> 
> In addition, my beloved Dena, was a huge help and source of great comfort. Darlin', this wouldn't be possible without you. I love you and I bow to your fandom wisdom <3
> 
> Anyways, I hope you understand where this is going and it isn't too confusing, and hopefully it will make more sense as the story continues.
> 
> Enjoy!

_The act done by me against my will is not my act_

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stiles had never been more grateful for coach’s suicide runs before, back then all he could think of was how much he wanted it to end, but now, he couldn’t afford to think like that. He had promised his dad that he would make it, when he fell, and Stiles was the one clutching his hands, he promised. So now he was running, because no one ever told you how the world truly would end, no one described the madness and the chaos so… Mad and chaotic. No one told you about mothers smothering their children at birth, about people eating their friends, simply to survive just a few days more. No one told you about all the rapes, the murders, the abuse and the violence. No one ever told you about the paralyzing panic.

 

Mrs. McCall had been the first one to fall, a stray bullet hitting her in the back, a heavy thump as she hit the ground. His dad had held her hand, promised her to keep the children safe, despite the fact that none of them had been children in ages. They had to leave her there, and it took Derek, Peter and Isaac to restrain Scott so he wouldn’t run back to her. Stiles would never forget the pain in Scott’s sobs.

 

Derek had been next, with the world going to hell the hunters had started a shoot first ask later policy, and he took a wolfsbane bullet meant for Isaac, saving the beta’s life once more. Derek’s was the first hand Stiles held as he watched someone’s light fade from their eyes. With Derek gone everyone assumed that Peter would up and abandon them, but the older wolf simply howled his pain to the moon, and carried on. Whenever someone asked him why he stayed, his answer was simple.

 

“Where else am I going to go?”

 

Erica, Boyd and Isaac all died together. No one thought twice about sending out three werewolves to fetch water that the humans could drink, not one of them expected them to never return, only to be found the next day when Peter and Scott crumbled into themselves in pain. Stiles had never understood the pack bond before then, not truly, but now he saw the two wolves shaking and crumbling from the pain of losing their pack mates. They found the three wolves in a clearing a few hours away from camp, Boyd and Isaac with a gunshot wound to their heads, black veins covering their bodies, Boyd halfway on top of Isaac, as if he was trying to cover the smaller wolf with his body. Erica was lying naked beside them, blood covering the insides of her thighs, unhealed bite wounds from human teeth on her breasts, stomach and arms. Both her feet had been shot with wolfsbane bullets making it a slow and excruciating death. Stiles vomited when they found them.

 

After that they left Beacon Hills behind, walking at night and sleeping at day, always with someone to hold watch. It was only Stiles and his dad, Peter Hale, Scott, Chris Argent and Allison, Lydia and Jackson left, they were the only descendants of the McCall pack, or what used to be the McCall pack anyway. They were safe, at least for another year, until they started losing their own once more.

 

Lydia died by a stray wolf’s claws, thick and deep gashes lining her ribs, puncturing her lung and leaving blood on the corner of her mouth. Stiles held her hand as Jackson lost his humanity, his anchor, and ripped the stray wolf apart, only to receive a bullet to the head by Chris Argent when he tried turning on them. Stiles held Lydia’s hand and promised her that he wouldn’t give up; he promised her that he would make it, and he didn’t even feel the tears tracking down his cheeks.

 

They took the time to bury their bodies, covering the dirt with big rocks to keep scavengers away, and that night the air was filled with mourning howls, but even the howls couldn’t stir the growing emptiness inside of Stiles.

 

By the time the Argents died, Stiles was sure that he had actually died himself, and that he had descended to hell, that there was no end to this. They had gotten tricked by ten hunters, claiming that they came in peace and recognized the Argent name, claiming that they were just trying to survive. Chris had claimed that there was safety in numbers, and that with ten more people they could shift on guard duty more efficiently. Stiles’ dad had agreed with him, and that was it, the hunters joined their group. It didn’t take more than two days before they decided that they wanted Allison, none of them having come across women for months, none of them willing to consider the issue of consent.

 

In the chaos that happened Stiles killed someone for the first time. The hunter was young, maybe not much older than Stiles himself, but he aimed a gun to Peter so Stiles smashed his skull in with his baseball bat. As he stood there, covered in blood and brain matter, he felt time slow down, until he heard Allison’s scream, mixing with Scott’s roar of horror and Chris calling for his daughter. When Stiles lifted his eyes to take in the scene before him, he saw three hunters between the pack and Allison, and he knew. He knew that they wouldn’t make it in time, and he only got more sure when he saw the hunter holding her pull his knife to her throat.  In the end, it didn’t matter that Stiles had killed someone, it didn’t matter how much Allison screamed or Scott roared.  Allison still had her throat slashed, it didn’t matter that they killed all of the hunters, because they were too late.

 

Christopher Argent left that night, leaving his guns and knives and all of his supplies with Stiles’ dad, he walked into the woods and they never saw him again. Just like every other night, this night was filled with mourning howls, but one of the howls was different, more wolf than man, but Stiles refused to see it. It didn’t matter that Scott lost his anchor with Allison, because he and Scott were brothers, and his brother wouldn’t leave him. So Stiles ignored the way Scott stopped using words, relying more on growls and grunts, ignored the way his friend couldn’t contain his wolf, ignored the way Scott never said his name again.

 

He continued ignoring it until his dad said something wrong, Stiles couldn’t remember what it was, but he said something that set Scott of. Something that made Scott bury his fangs in his dad’s neck and rip. And Stiles just couldn’t. He couldn’t anymore, he didn’t notice anything anymore, didn’t feel anything. He didn’t feel the scream ripping its way through his throat, he didn’t feel the blood rushing from his face, didn’t feel the utter terror of being left behind. He didn’t feel the blood rushing through his fingers as he pressed his hands on his father’s wounds. He didn’t feel his dad, his pops, grab his wrists in a weak grip, tears flowing from his eyes. He didn’t feel his dad’s last words.

 

“Live.”

 

Stiles didn’t feel anything. He didn’t feel Peter’s bloody hand closing around his shoulder, offering support and warmth, he didn’t feel the sobs breaking through his ribcage or the way his heart seemed to break in a million pieces. Stiles didn’t feel anything anymore.

 

\---

 

Peter and Stiles managed to survive another year without meeting other people. They survived on the water Peter sniffed out and the wild game they took down together, just like a pack should. Every night they migrated towards each other, clutching whichever piece of cloth and skin they could reach, for warmth and comfort. And if Stiles closed his eyes at night while he was curled into Peter, and pretended that the world hadn’t ended, that they were just a couple out camping, no one would ever know.

 

It was during winter that everything came to a halt, Stiles figured about three years had passed, the only way to tell time was keeping track of the seasons. They had been tracking a deer when Peter’s head suddenly snapped up, his nose wrinkling as he took in the scents surrounding them, his body completely still. Stiles felt himself stiffen beside the older man, taking his cues from the wolf, wondering if maybe a bear had wandered too close. Peter didn’t have the chance to do much more than open his mouth when the first shot went off, the loud bang echoing through the forest floor. The bullet entered Peter’s right shoulder, just above his collarbone, and the man hissed at the contact. It didn’t take long until more bullets started flying past them, some hitting their marks, Peter taking one more to his left side, Stiles taking one in his upper right arm.

 

Stiles stood frozen, both from the pain and the surprise, when Peter turned him around and shoved him, that’s when his survival-instinct kicked in. They ran beside one another, and even Stiles’ human ears could pick up the hunters shouting behind them, bullets flying past them and thankfully missing. Stiles had never been more grateful for coach’s suicide runs before, back then all he could think of was how much he wanted it to end, but now, he couldn’t afford to think like that. He had promised his dad that he would make it, when he fell, and Stiles was the one clutching his hands, he promised.

 

The thick underbrush was pulling at Stiles’ hoodie and jeans, the branches hitting his face, but he kept running, keeping one eye on Peter and the other on the road before them and the only thing he could think was how much he hoped they managed to escape the hunters, and find the wolfsbane that was covering the bullets. He couldn’t let Peter die. He was so focused that he missed the root twisting its way above ground, and it cached his foot, sending him face down into the dirt.

 

He heard Peter snarling, far far away, and he heard the guns going off around him, but Stiles couldn’t find it in him to focus. He forced his hand to move up to his head, and he hissed when it probed something painful and wet, coming away covered in blood. A strange face appeared in front of him, eyes so dark that they seemed black, a wild salt and pepper beard covering the man’s jaw and cheeks. Stiles couldn’t do anything other than look into his potential killers face, thinking how sorry he was that he couldn’t keep his promise to his dad, that he couldn’t keep both himself and Peter alive.

 

He kept staring into the man’s eyes, not really paying attention to anything else, kept trying to force the man to consider him a human – someone who shouldn’t be killed.

 

“Filth.” The man muttered before standing straight again, sending a kick to Stiles’ ribs.

 

Stiles curled up in a fetal position from the pain, and he saw Peter, even though he wished he hadn’t. The older wolf who had always looked so gracious was now almost feral, black blood oozing from several wounds in his torso, legs and arms, face fully shifted and eyes glowing blue. Stiles saw the hunters surrounding him, saw how they acted like idiots at a dog fight, goading the wolf on and on, shooting him and stabbing him with knives. Some part of Stiles’ mind gawked at the unfair playing field – seven hunters to one wolf, and another part of him just wished that Peter would run, even though he knew he wouldn’t.

 

Stiles had blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, Peter was kneeling on the ground, chest heaving with painful breaths – yet his head was held high and his gaze was directed at Stiles. It had felt like a could-have-been moment, one where true confessions of love was supposed to be shared, the villains defeated and the heroes roaring with victory. It had been a could-have-been moment, until the youngest of the hunters grabbed Peter by his hair, and another ran a blade through his neck.

 

Stiles screamed, he knew he did, because he felt the vibrations in his throat. He knew that he had clawed his way towards Peter’s still body, because he felt his nails break on the frozen ground. He knew he didn’t get far, because one moment he was looking into Peter’s vacant eyes and the next he looked into the barrel of a gun.

 

Stiles’ last thought before the gun went off changed everything.

 

_“I just want them back.”_

 

\---

 

“You can’t sleep here, kid.”

 

Stiles blinked.

 

“Kid, I’m serious. Do you have someone I could call for you?”

 

Blink.

 

“Of course this had to happen today. Hey, boss, I think we should call the EMTs!”

 

Blink.

 

Stiles’ vision was swimming, blurring in and out of clearness, and he couldn’t figure out where he was. Someone was talking to him, asking him his name and if he knew the date, but there was something important that had happened. Something Stiles had to remember.

 

It all crashed into him at once, all their deaths, the weariness and the constant hunger, the pain and suffering. Stiles didn’t even notice that he apparently curled into a fetal position, clutching his legs, a silent scream leaving his lips. The person who had talked to him touched his shoulder and in another lifetime, maybe Stiles would have found that comforting, but now he couldn’t think of anything except _danger_. He didn’t know how it happened, one second he was lying on a bench, the next he felt the stranger’s blood trickling over his fingers where he had buried his knife in the man’s thigh.

 

It didn’t make sense, nothing made sense, he wasn’t supposed to be on a bench, he wasn’t supposed to see and hear cars driving by. He wasn’t supposed to see people, let alone someone in a police uniform, and Stiles just couldn’t.

 

The man cursed loudly and Stiles could see his partner rushing towards them, but he was already crawling backwards, falling of the bench and onto the ground, breaths heaving in his chest. How? Why? How? His thoughts were circling around too fast for him to grasp them, his finely tuned instincts on high alert, his vision swimming with tears. He continued crawling backwards, unable and unwilling to turn his back on the two strangers, muttering unintelligibly under his breath.

 

The strange man looked just like Parrish had, before everything ended, like he was his lost twin. The woman accompanying him was the identical twin of Tara, but that was impossible, because she had died even before the world ended. The familiar-non-familiar people walked towards him slowly, hands raised in a universal sign of appearing non-threatening, speaking slowly and carefully. And Stiles _knew_ they would, because his dad had _taught him_ this, had _taught him_ how to talk down a person who was a potential danger to themselves and others.

 

Not-Parrish moved so sudden that Stiles didn’t have time to react, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head, whilst Not-Tara grabbed his legs, and Stiles had always been skinny, but after years living of scraps he was down right meager, and he didn’t have the strength to buck them off, no matter how much he tried. And he did try, because by some twisted game of the devil, he had survived the end of the world, and there was no way he would be killed by someone who wore the face of people he had grown up with. He knew he was panicking, he could feel his blood rushing through his veins, could see the black dots covering his vision.

 

“Peter!” He whimpered before the world turned black once more, the last thing he saw being the tan colored shirt of Not-Parrish’s uniform.

 

\---

  


When Stiles regained consciousness again he didn’t open his eyes. He refused to, because he didn’t wanna do this anymore. It hadn’t been funny the first time he woke up, and it definitely wasn’t funny this time, not when he swore he could hear Deaton and _his dad_ saying words they had never said before. At least not to each other. Words like _omega_ , _unmated_ , _guardian_ were thrown around like it was an everyday occurrence. And Stiles knew he couldn’t be imagining this. The months after his dad died he had heard the older man’s voice, and even seen him several times, both during nightmares and when he was awake. But he had never heard him speaking like this. So Stiles refused to open his eyes, he didn’t need to see this anyway, no sir, because this had to be hell. He had done some questionable things in his life, sure, but he never imagined he would end up in hell. Maybe he should check if Peter was being tortured in the room next door.

 

The thought of the older wolf made him whimper and curl in on himself, as if his body was trying to shield his mind from the pain. He could feel his eyelashes wetting with tears that he refused to shed, thinking that if he just closed his eyes hard enough, he would wake up to Peter tightening his grip around him and shushing with deep rumbles from his chest. He could almost feel the wolf’s hands around him, feel the soft puffs of air hitting his neck, smell him. The constant beeping sound that had dragged on in the background now sounded almost like a toddler being allowed to use a morse code machine, Stiles recognized it as a heart monitor, having spent so much time at the hospital with his mom and Mrs.McCall growing up, and he vaguely thought about how detailed hell seemed to be.

 

It isn’t until he hears a third voice that he loses it. Because his dad’s and Deaton’s voices might have given him a fright, but this voice is so painfully familiar. This is the voice he’s heard every day since the world ended, he’s heard it angry and sharp, concerned and shaking, he’s heard it fond and loving. And it’s tearing him apart, because this voice is the one he never thought he’d hear again, this is _Peter’s voice_. He knew his heart monitor was going crazy now, not so much because he heard it as he was focusing all of his senses on the voice outside of his door, but because he could feel his heart trying to escape his chest cavity. Every single one of his instincts were screaming at him to go to the wolf, to find protection in the older man, to make sure that he wasn’t slowly losing his mind.

 

He didn’t notice when not-Deaton and not-Dad stormed into the room, didn’t care to acknowledge them, because coming in just behind not-dad was Peter. Peter with his stormy blue eyes and dark hair slicked back. Peter who looked at him like he was a stranger.

 

Even the first time they saw each other at the hospital, oh so many years ago, Peter had never looked at him like a stranger. Stiles couldn’t contain the whimper that escaped his lips when he saw the blank stare in the older man’s eyes, nor could he stop the tears that were running freely now, dripping of his chin and landing on his hands - the same hands he clutched around the necklace Peter once gave him, a sunny day between Chris wandering off and his dad dying. It was a simple silver chain that reached the nook between his collar bones, but the pendant hanging of it was anything except extraordinary to Stiles; a silver coin with a raised triskele fitted on top. Peter had said it was a Hale family heirloom going back generations, and Stiles hadn’t taken it off since he got it.

 

Not-Deaton was standing beside him now, saying words that mushed in Stiles’ brain, trying to calm him down. Not-dad was standing beside not-Deaton making concerned noises, but Stiles didn’t care, because Peter was standing in front of his bed staring at Stiles’ face without recognition.

 

“We might have to sedate him, John.” Not-Deaton’s voice reached Stiles’ ears, his words finally making sense.

 

Stiles felt his body jerk away from the two men at his side, scrambling away from them, because he couldn’t go back to sleep. Peter was _here,_ he had to make sure the other man was really there, because if he closed his eyes and Peter disappeared again he was afraid that he might actually die. He scrambled across the bed until he suddenly didn’t feel the mattress underneath his hands anymore and suddenly he found himself falling, almost like in slow motion. He could feel something ripping the back of his hand, his IV his mind supplied, and he just as he braced himself to hit the floor he felt a pair of familiar arms sneaking their way around him.

 

He could still feel his heartbeat going crazy and black dots swam in his vision, but the feeling of Peter’s arms around him was something he would have been able to recognize everywhere. The wolf lifted him in a bridal carry and placed him back on the bed before stepping back so he was leaning towards the wall besides Stiles’ bed. His eyes was narrowed though, and staring intently on the necklace hanging around Stiles’ throat, bared to the world when Stiles lost his balance.

 

“Maybe you should reconsider sedating the omega, as he doesn’t seem too inclined to the idea himself?” Peter asked.

 

Stiles felt his heart blip when he heard Peter’s voice so close, and he was struck anew by the grief that slammed into him, because he _knew_ that Peter should be dead.

 

“P.. Pe-Peter?” Stiles croaked out, his voice raw and his throat sore.

 

If Stiles didn’t have the entire room’s attention earlier, he surely had it then. Peter’s eyes zeroed in on him, the wolf’s body stiffening.

 

“How do you know my name, omega?” Peter asked, and Stiles had never even heard his voice so cold before, he felt himself shiver beneath them.

 

“Nononononono!” He sobbed the words out, only noticing then how his chest heaved with the force of it, how his eyes had continued to shed tears as he focused on the wolf.

 

He shook his head as he grabbed onto the necklace like a lifeline, pulled between begging that he would wake up soon, and the horrifying dread that Peter might disappear once more. The edges of the pendant was cutting into his palm, a terrifying reminder that this had to be real, because Peter has once said that death didn’t feel like anything - no pain, happiness or grief, just a blank slate of nothing. He just couldn’t make sense of it, how, _why_ , he was here. Wherever here actually was. He was so focused on his own thoughts and Peter’s cold eyes that he didn’t realize that Not-Deaton had crept up beside him and plunged a needle into his arm. He didn’t hear the words the doctor muttered, nor his not-father’s response, because he was drowning in blue eyes cold as the north sea until the darkness once more filled his senses.


	2. Bis dat qui cito dat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t know how long he had been awake this time, didn’t want to know either, letting it all rush past him. The nurses who came in and checked his blood pressure, white uniforms flashing in his peripheral vision, talking in hushed tones that never reached his ears. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, not really seeing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my GOD YOU GUYS! I can't even begin to explain how touched I am by the fact that people actually read this, let alone commented, subscribed, bookmarked and left kudos! You are so sweet and I may or may not have shed some tears over it. I totally blame hormones though.
> 
> This chapter has been edited by the amazing, one of a kind, beautiful and perfect [Dena](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DenaCeleste). I heavily suggest that you go check out her work and show her some love! Dena, honey, this would never have been done without you. I adore you and I love you and thank you.
> 
> Now, some questions were brought up in the comments, and I would like to address those that won't be answered within the fic itself;  
>  Stiles is in this universe 19 years old, as the world went to shit when he was 16 and he spent the next three years running and watching the people he love die. He does not exist in this universe prior to waking up in the park, and the reason for that, you will discover within this chapter.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include:  
>  Self harm. Grief. Unvoiced/Unrealized suicide wish.

_ A gift given without hesitation is as good as two gifts. _

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t know how long he had been awake this time, didn’t want to know either, letting it all rush past him. The nurses who came in and checked his blood pressure, white uniforms flashing in his peripheral vision, talking in hushed tones that never reached his ears. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, not really seeing it. 

 

When he’d woken up, Peter had been gone, leaving him alone with not-dad and not-Deaton. The two had tried talking to him, asking him his name and where he was from, how he knew Peter. Stiles had tried, once, to ask where he was. How he had gotten there, why he wasn’t dead like he was supposed to be, like they were supposed to be, but his voice wouldn’t carry. His lips refused to shape the words, so instead he’d laid down and stared at the ceiling, trying his hardest to tune out the bone chilling sound of their too familiar voices. In the end, not-dad had given up, stating that he was needed at the station before he took his leave. Not-Deaton stayed for a while after that, firing question after question, not understanding that he wouldn’t get an answer, until he left as well. 

 

It wasn’t until one of the nurses tried patting his hand, such an innocent touch, that Stiles moved. One second he was staring at the ceiling, but the feeling of the pressure on his hand made chills go down his spine, and when he got back to himself he was standing at the other side of the room on wobbly knees, a blonde nurse looking at him with horrified eyes. He could hear hurried footsteps outside the room, no doubt rushing towards them, and it felt like his lungs couldn’t bring in enough air. 

 

He slumped back against the wall behind him, folding down until he was sitting with his knees pressed closed to his chest, his fingernails digging into his upper arms. He just needed it to stop. He needed everything to stop. The pain from the scratches wasn’t enough, and even when the path they took smoothed out with blood, it still wasn’t enough. He needed more. A tiny voice whispered in his ear that he should dig harder, or find something sharp and dig that in instead. He pressed his forehead to his knees, wheezing in wet breaths, flexing his fingers as deeply and hard as he could.

 

“Take it easy, kid. No one’s gonna hurt you.” 

 

Stiles screwed his eyes shut at the sound of Peter’s voice. He couldn’t see him, not again, he couldn’t see the coldness in his eyes. He wouldn’t survive it. He could hear people moving around the room, and a small part of him wondered if they would send him back to the darkness, and he knew that he would welcome the dark this time. 

 

“It’s okay, everything is going to be fine, just try to breathe for me.”

 

He whimpered at the words, images and sounds jumping from his mind, memories from a time passed. He saw Peter talking him down from panic attacks after his dad died. He saw Peter when he had shaken him awake after a nightmare. The sensory impressions from his Peter and this Peter mixed and clashed, and he couldn’t understand, because Peter was his no matter what. How could this be not his Peter, how could he not be Peter’s Stiles? 

 

“I’m gonna sit down here, okay, and I’m gonna hold out my hand. If you wanna take it, then that’s fine.”

 

Stiles couldn’t breathe. He could hear rustling of clothes to his left, feel the air shifting when the older man sat down, and feel the heat radiating of him. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to grab a hold of Peter, to allow the wolf to anchor him, just like he had oh so many times before. He wanted to crawl onto the older mans lap, cling to him and drown in everything that was Peter. But that tiny voice in his head was whispering to him. Telling him how this wasn’t real. Peter was dead. They were all dead. He was all alone.

 

That final thought broke him, and he blindly reached to where he figured Peter’s hand would be, mindless of the blood covering his fingers. He didn’t want to be alone. When he reached the offered hand he clenched his fingers around it, half his mind reeling at the familiarity of it, the other half rejoiced with relief at the contact. He didn’t know how long he sat there, clutching to Peter’s hand with one of his, and the other firmly around his necklace - but as time passed, he noticed how he couldn’t hear anything besides the sound of Peter’s voice.

 

“... And considering that you don’t smell like wolf, I would eat my shoes, which are italian by the way, if you ended up belonging to some pack.”

  
  


“Gone.” Stiles croaked out, licking his dry lips, throat feeling like the Sahara desert.

 

“You’re gone. You’re all gone and I’m alone. Why didn’t you run, Peter, why wouldn’t you just run?” He knew he had the wolf’s attention now, could practically envision the way the older man would crook his head to the side, a confused humm coming from his throat. 

 

“What do you mean?” Peter’s words were soft now, almost like he was afraid of scaring Stiles if he spoke too loud. Silly wolf. He hadn’t scared Stiles in years.

 

“You should have run, but you didn’t, and you died. Why did you make me watch you  _ die _ ?” A sob fought it’s way past Stiles’ lips, and he could feel Peter tightening his hand around his for a second, before it relaxed again. “Why didn’t you just  _ run _ ?”

 

As soon as Stiles got the last word out he heard fast and heavy footsteps heading towards the room, and he could feel his body tensing once more, lifting his head to stare at the door. His body that had just seconds before been close to dropping from exhaustion was now throbbing with adrenaline. The door handle turned and the door was pushed open.

 

The new arrival was big, bigger than anyone Stiles had ever seen before, forearms bigger than Stiles’ thighs. He had short, black hair and a square jaw. He was the kind of man that Stiles would have tripped whilst passing before the world went to hell. Except that he was sporting a pair of blue glowing eyes and claws. Werewolf. It was like time had slowed down, and Stiles’ was watching from the other side of the room, seeing himself crawl on top of Peter, covering the man’s vulnerable throat and torso. He watched his lips curl up in a snarl, body molded against Peter’s, fingers flexing at his sides.

 

“I won’t let you hurt him.” The words came out more like a growl, but he knew the wolf had heard him, seeing how he had stiffened.

 

He didn’t come back into his body until he felt Peter shifting underneath him, almost like the wolf was trying to shove him aside, and he felt panic clawing at his insides.

 

“No, he’s not allowed to die again. I won’t let you hurt him.” 

 

Tears were trickling down his cheeks freely, though he could feel his face still locked in a snarl, never looking away from the stranger’s eyes.

 

“Shush, shush, little one, you’re safe now.” Peter whispered into his ear, hands carefully placed on his arms, smoothing them up and down in a soothing rhythm. “Ennis is going to retract his claws now, aren’t you, Ennis?” 

 

The tall man, Ennis, simply nodded before he carefully retracted his claws, blue eyes turning into a soft brown. He smiled down at Stiles as he crouched down to their level on the floor, keeping his distance.

 

“I just came to let Peter know that I am not now, nor will I ever be, a babysitter. I didn’t mean to scare you, and I apologize for doing so. Will you forgive me?” Ennis hadn’t lost his smile, if anything it had grown, and his eyes were sincere. 

 

Stiles turned his head towards Peter, taking in the wolf’s relaxed body language and comforting smile before he turned back towards Ennis, nodding carefully. He didn’t move away from Peter, now sagging into the wolf’s chest, feeling the exhaustion crash in once more as the adrenaline left his body. He could feel Peter taking a deep breath, almost wishing he could snuggle into the warmth the other man provided, but not allowing himself to do so. This wasn’t his Peter, no matter how much he wanted it to be, because even now, he could feel the other man's distance.

 

“How about we get you back into bed? What do you say about that, omega?” Peter didn’t wait for an answer before he hefted them both up from the floor, and took six long strides until they were standing beside the bed again, carefully placing Stiles on the mattress. 

 

“Why do you keep calling me omega?” Stiles slurred, body sinking into the mattress beneath him, yet somehow still unaccustomed to lying so comfortably “I’m not a wolf, so even though my pack is gone, I’m still human.”

 

Closing his eyes for a huge yawn, Stiles didn’t see the confused glance shared between his-not-his Peter and Ennis, and when he forced his eyes open again, they both had smoothed out their faces.

 

“Well, I don’t know your name now, do I?” Peter asked, smiling slightly behind closed of eyes.

 

“T’s Stiles.” He slurred, pointedly ignoring the way Peter still looked at him like a stranger, yawning once more before he continued. “Nd you’re not my Peter. Mine-not-mine. Are you going to leave me too?”

 

Whatever response Peter gave, Stiles didn’t hear it, darkness seeping through his senses once more, leaving his body lax on the bed.

 

\---

 

Stiles opened his eyes and took in Peter lying beside him. Peter had found the cave not too long ago, and the wolf had quickly scared away the bear that used to live there, deeming it safe afterwards. Stiles had done his best at picking moss and soft grass, trying to make a field bed for them, trying to remember what he’d seen at those crazy doomsday preppers shows. Oh, how naive he had been, sitting in the living room with his dad, laughing at people who did their best to prepare for the end of the world. Who did their best to prepare to survive. He had laughed, and laughed, and then the world had ended. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He couldn’t even pinpoint the exact time he had laughed for the last time. Probably before they died - the pack. Instead he looked at Peter. 

 

The once well groomed man, vain even, now looked lost and broken. His black hair had grown long, always falling into his face, giving him the habit of huffing a deep breath to remove it. His goatee had grown into a full beard, covering the hollow cheeks underneath, bringing out the dark rings under his eyes and the lines that tracked their corners. He almost looked peaceful whilst sleeping, curled towards Stiles with his back to the cave opening, covering the younger man with his body. His arm was thrown over Stiles’ waist, a line of much needed warmth, a small security for them both. 

 

Stiles was cradling his necklace in a loose fist, the other hand drawing invisible patterns onto Peter’s nose and forehead, over his eyes, tracing his lips. It had been weird in the beginning. Lying down with the big bad wolf so close, only to radiate towards each other during the night, waking with mingled limbs. Now it was as easy as breathing. Curling close to the older man, pushing his nose into the crook of his neck, drawing in the scent of woods, earth, and something that was pure Peter. There was a comfort in knowing that at the end of the day he still had someone to cuddle close with. Someone to touch and be touched by in return. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice that his hand had stopped tracing Peter’s face. He didn’t notice the wolf waking up. He didn’t notice him staring at him. Not until Peter spoke.

 

“Why are you awake?” Peter’s voice was rough with sleep, sounding more like growls than words, sending a heat down into Stiles’ gut.

 

“Just thinking, ‘s all.”

 

“Well, go back to sleep. It’s too early to be up.” Peter’s hand came up to his nape, scratching the vulnerable skin lightly. “And trust me - You can’t see yourself, but you really do need the beauty sleep.”

 

Stiles smacked the other man’s arm lightly, before he burrowed into Peter’s chest once more, shaking with the vibrations of Peter’s quiet laugh. He fell asleep feeling hands tighten around him and a nose nuzzling the top of his head.

  
  


\---

  
  


Stiles was getting tired of this. Tired of sleeping. More tired of waking up. Waking up meant that he had to acknowledge the painful longing in his chest, the loneliness that had carved out his sternum, sitting there like a black mass, spreading to the rest of his body. Consuming him. It got better when Peter was there, but it also got worse, because this Peter wasn’t his. This wasn’t the Peter he had been chased through a high school by, the one he had set on fire, or the one he had seen come back to life. This wasn’t the Peter who had fought and challenged him at every turn. This wasn’t the Peter he had slowly grown to trust and respect. It wasn’t the one who had held him at night, chasing away his nightmares with rumbled purring from his chest, sharing his unnatural heat. 

 

This Peter was a stranger wearing a friend’s skin, and it tore Stiles apart, half his instincts screaming to curl close to the wolf, the other half telling him what his rational mind knew; this wasn’t the man he knew and trusted. Yet he longed to stay by the wolf’s side, because of all the people he had seen, Peter was the only one he could imagine to still be the same. 

 

He was dragged from his thoughts when he heard the door open once more. Peter, not-Deaton and not-Dad came into the room first, and Stiles shied away from looking at the latter. Instead he focused on the fourth person who had entered, still hidden behind the taller males, though the clicking sound of heels on the floor indicated that the person was a woman. There was a soft cough coming from the mystery person, making not-Dad and not-Deaton shuffle to the side quickly, and Peter roll his eyes. When the person stepped forward, Stiles’ breath caught in his throat, and his heart stopped.

 

Lydia.

 

Lydia with her strawberry blond hair pulled up into a tight bun at the top of her head. Lydia wearing a blue dress that stopped at her knees with a tight skirt. Lydia who was wearing matching blue pumps. Other images flew across his eyes and Stiles wanted to scream. Lydia walking past him at school. Lydia tilting her head to the side before she verbally castrated Harris when he tried to tell her that she was wrong. Lydia laughing. Lydia smiling. Lydia lying in a field of grass. Lydia with blood trickling out from the corner of her mouth. Lydia with tears falling down her cheeks. Lydia who smiled when death took her. 

 

He didn’t realize that tears were falling down his cheeks, nor did he realize that his chest was heaving with breaths, mouth forming the words no, no, no, over and over, with no sound coming out. It was like his entire being was focused on the goddess standing in front of him. 

 

“You knew us.” Lydia said, her eyes milky white and her head tilted to the side. “You knew us once, in a world long gone, and now you do not.”

 

Stiles couldn’t look away from her eyes no matter how hard he tried. It was like they pulled the images of all the deaths he had seen from his memory, placing them bare for her to judge, and the pain for each and every one of them assaulted him once more, this time, all at once. He distantly heard a whimper and realized the sound must have come from him. God, was this what dying really felt like? Had he just missed it last time?

 

“The spark inside you spared you, given the air it needed to burst to flame, only to be put out once more." 

 

Lydia was walking towards him now, heels clicking on the floor, eyes never leaving his. No matter how much he tried and strained, Stiles couldn’t force his muscles to move away, his heart beating so hard he figured he’d have a heart attack soon. Six steps was what it took her, six clicking sounds on the floor, and suddenly a small and warm hand was on his face. Lydia cupped his cheek in her palm before smiling down at him.

 

“Death surrounds you like a cloak, but fear not, for life will spring inside you.”

 

With those confusing words echoing in his ears, Lydia stepped back and shook her head, eyes filling with pity as they returned to their normal hazel color. Stiles realized that he was finally able to look away from her, and quickly lowered his head, looking at his hands in stead. The images of his family and pack dying in front of him didn’t leave, and the pain that he had worked so hard on suppressing had surfaced, leaving him in an endless loop of grief, pain and loneliness. Seeing Lydia had been the last nail to the coffin, and there was no doubt anymore, either he had completely lost his mind, or he had somehow ended up somewhere else. But where?

 

“What did you see, ms.Martin?” Not-Deaton asked, his voice calm as ever.

 

“He isn’t from here, this world I mean. I saw death and pain, and a spark that came to life when all hope was gone. I imagine that it was the necklace around his neck that brought him here, given the fact that it carries the Hale family crest, and what you told me about his reaction to Peter.” Lydia’s voice was filled with familiar authority, like she knew that she was right, and was only waiting for everyone else to catch up.

 

“What do you mean, isn’t from this world? Where the hell is he from then?” Not-Dad sounded resigned as he asked, like he had long since given up in trying to understand the workings of the world. 

 

“All I can tell you is that this will all be very new to him. I would advise you to give him the same lessons children receive before they present. And I expect that you give him the exact same information as well.” Lydia cleared her throat discreetly before she continued with a smirk “and I do mean that he will need to learn  _ everything _ .”

 

“That would explain what he meant when he asked me why I called him an omega.” 

 

Peter. Peter was talking. Peter was still there. Stiles’ head snapped towards the voice, and stared at the wolf, a whine ripping from his chest. He couldn’t explain the sudden need he felt to curl around the man. Maybe it was because he hadn’t had time to process Peter’s death before. Maybe it was because Peter had been safety only, God, how long had it been?

 

“By all means, gentlemen. Don’t fight for the privilege to teach the boy.” Lydia’s voice was eerie calm, and Stiles winced at the memories it brought forwards, forcing his mind to see this Lydia and not the one he had grown up with and lost. 

 

“Ms.Martin is right. However, I do believe that it would be out of the best concern for the omega if Mr.Hale was the one to do the honor, as it seems the boy has imprinted on him.” Not-Deaton agreed.

 

“What?” Peter said at the same time as not-Dad quickly sounded out an agreement.

 

Stiles didn’t understand. How did children's lessons have to do with him not having a pack?

 

\---

 

They had given him some clothes not long after that, a soft pair of sweats and a t-shirt that someone had donated to the hospital, as well as some socks. Peter had led him to a different room after he had finished dressing, careful not to touch him, keeping three steps in front of Stiles until they arrived at what seemed like some sort of office. Peter had gestured for him to sit down in a plush chair, taking the one across from him, and folded himself down with grace. Stiles had pretty much fallen into the chair with the same amount of grace as a newborn foal. It had made the corners of Peter’s mouth twitch though, so he didn’t feel too bad about it.

 

“Okay. I’m not exactly sure what to say, to be honest, as I’ve never given a child the talk before. But Deaton gave me some tips, so.” Peter dragged his hand over his face and took a deep breath before he continued. “Basically there are two primary genders, female and male, as I’m sure you know. There are also three secondary genders - alpha, beta and omega.”

 

Stiles tilted his head to the side. He hadn’t spoken since Lydia had dragged the memories from his mind, pain still too fresh in his chest, but he was pretty sure that he conveyed his confusion clearly through his facial expression. 

 

“Alphas are generally the stronger of the genders, though there have been some pretty impressive betas through the times, and they are typically the most aggressive of the genders.” Peter seemed to stop to think before he started speaking again “Okay, just assume that I’m talking about everyone in a general way, okay?”

 

Stiles nodded hesitantly.

 

“Okay. Betas are the more level gender. They’re not too aggressive or possessive, nor are they as submissive as your general omega would be. And then, finally, we have omegas. All omegas have the ability to carry children, and they will typically go into heat once every three months, though every omega experiences heat differently. Mostly though there’s one thing they all have in common - they all experience a painful need to reproduce.”

 

Stiles didn’t know what his face looked like at that moment, but he was sure that it conveyed the utter horror he was feeling. Peter couldn’t mean what he thought he meant, right? Oblivious to Stiles’ inner panic, Peter pushed on.

 

“Whilst omegas are more commonly submissive, they are by no means weak or to be taken for granted. You have the right to choose your mate, or mates if you please, just the same as any alpha or beta. Omegas also tend to have the strongest noses, often able to detect pregnancies and other omegas even under scent blockers. You will also be held to the same standard as any beta or alpha according to the law, though there tends to be more sexual harassment towards omegas than the other genders. But don’t worry, pup, it’s mostly harmless, and the law is pretty strict about it, so if someone’s bothering you, you can either let me know and I’ll bring you to the station myself or you call 911.”

 

He didn’t notice that Peter had stopped talking before the older man cleared his throat loudly. He looked up at him with eyes so wide it felt like they were going to fall out, more questions than answers sweeping through his head now than before. What did Peter mean by all omegas? Was Stiles an omega? But he was a man! He lacked a very vital body part to be able to carry a child, let alone conceive one! Was Peter an omega? Could an alpha werewolf be an omega?

 

“Do you have any questions?” 

 

Stiles snorted. He didn’t even know where to begin, let alone which questions would be acceptable, or which would be considered rude. He opened his mouth but no words would come. Instead he started laughing, doubling over his knees, hands clutching his stomach. He didn’t see how Peter reacted, tears blurring his sight, chest heaving with laughs that too soon turned into sobs. How could this be happening? What  _ was _ actually happening? Peter made a noise in front of him, and that was the only warning he got before there was a hand stroking between his shoulder blades, soft shushes whispered between them.

 

“I know it must be a lot to take in right now, and I’m truly sorry that you have to go through it. From Lydia’s reaction, as well as yours over the past four days, I gather that you didn’t have an easy passage coming here.” Peter’s voice was soft and comforting, and it just made Stiles cry harder to hear it.

 

Four days.

 

He didn’t know how long he spent crying, how long Peter’s hand was drifting from one shoulder to the next, leaving a warm path behind it. He didn’t really want to know. Knowing things meant having to acknowledge them, and Stiles was simply tired. He was tired of crying, of sleeping, of waking up alone. He was tired of being woken up every fourth hour when nurses came into his room, of being poked and prodded, of pitying looks. He just wanted it all to stop. Eventually the tears dried up, his breaths evened out and his heart slowed down, but Peter’s hand continued it’s soothing motion. 

 

“I know you must be tired, rightfully so, but there is one more thing we need to discuss.”

 

Stiles took a deep breath and raised his head, looking at Peter with an expression that he hoped said what he couldn’t find the voice to,  _ what now? _

 

“Deaton, the sheriff and I were discussing, and we figured out that you have to be tired of hospital food by now. Normally, when an unmated and underage omega is without a home, the government will provide one for them, but we figured that might not be the best course of action in your case. Somehow, and believe me I have no idea how it happened, my house was offered up. And it is. You are welcome to my pack home, if you would like. I already know that you know about werewolves, so I’m guessing it wouldn’t be much of a problem for you to live with us. But the decision is all yours. Of course.”

 

Stiles didn’t realize he was nodding until he heard Peter’s chuckle. He didn’t even know why he wanted to be with the man. Considering his reaction to seeing not-dad and not-Deaton and not-Lydia he should be running in the opposite direction from Peter, but it was  _ Peter _ . Maybe he came here, to this time and place, because he was given a second chance to protect the wolf? He didn’t want to question it, lest he lost the only person in the world he could see himself being close to. 

 

“That settles it then. We’ll just have to sign some paperwork and we’ll be ready to leave.” Peter smiled as he clapped his hands on his knees before he stood. “If you’ll follow me please. I can’t stand the smell of hospitals.”

 

Stiles froze as Peter walked past him, carefully lifting his chin to sniff the air, dragging it in with huge lungfuls. He hadn’t noticed it before, but there was some sort of smell in the air. It smelled like home and protection. Hints of musk and the scent of the woods after rain. He followed the scent with his eyes closed, trying to close all his other senses so that he could take in more of it. It took him three steps to walk straight into Peter’s back, and he was so enthralled with the scent that it took him a second to realize what had happened. The scent came from Peter. How did he even smell that? Had he somehow turned into a werewolf? 

 

He ignored Peter’s confused face and followed the man closely when he apparently gave up getting an answer about Stiles’ weird actions. It was okay. He would get used to it. After all, he had before. As they were walking down corridors and into an elevator, Stiles tried forcing out claws, or even shift his eyes. When nothing happened he remembered Peter’s words. Omegas had a strong sense of smell. 

 

Lost in his own thoughts, he almost walked straight into Peter once more when the man stopped in front of a reception desk, only missing him when he heard Peter speak. He stepped up until he was half covered by Peter’s body but still able to see who Peter was talking to. Seeing her, he almost wished he hadn’t, and he must have made a sound because suddenly there were four sets of eyes on him. Not-Dad was standing in front of the desk as well, leaning against it with a warm expression on his face, and leaning against him, almost over the desk as well, was Melissa McCall. And behind her. Behind her was Scott. His Scott. 

 

“Stiles, you’ve already met sheriff Stilinski. I’d like to introduce you to his wife, Melissa Stilinski and their son, Scott Stilinski.” Peter introduced them with a smile. 

 

When Stiles blinked he saw Melissa with blood dripping from her mouth, chest heaving in pain and tears running from her eyes. He saw Scott ripping his dad’s throat out, blood dripping from his mouth, eyes shining a supernatural blue. He blinked again and saw them looking at him with a concerned expression. He stepped closer to Peter, hand coming up to clutch at the man’s jacket, torn between kicking himself for hiding like a child and dropping to the floor in pain. Peter didn’t seem to know that he took a step in front of him, efficiently shielding him from the others’ eyes. They didn’t waste any more time signing the papers, Peter handing him a pen and telling him to sign his name at the dotted line, and they were gone.

 

Walking out of the hospital, Stiles didn’t know how he felt. Not-Melissa was married with Not-Dad. Not-Melissa and Not-Dad had a child together and that child was Not-Scott. Did this mean that his mom didn’t exist in this world? Did it mean that  _ he _ didn’t exist in this world? 

 

Peter led him to a black toyota and opened the passenger door for him, closing it behind him when Stiles slid onto a black leather seat, not even feeling the softness of the leather beneath him. It didn’t take more than a couple of seconds until Peter was sliding into the seat beside him, but Stiles couldn’t stop the momentary panic when he didn’t have the wolf beside him, only able to breathe normally again once Peter closed his own door and started the engine.

 

“So. There are some ground rules at the house, nothing too ominous of course, but they are absolute. The first is that there will be absolutely no physical fighting between humans and shifters. Second, you’re not to enter another pack member’s bedroom and they shall not enter yours without an explicit invitation. Third, if you choose to invite someone to the house, you will need to give a warning beforehand.” 

 

Stiles listened halfheartedly as he stared out the window. The city was slowly dissolving into woods, the radio playing some upbeat song on a low volume.

 

“We’re eight people in the pack, but only six of us are living in the house at the moment. You will probably only meet the pups and Chris today, and you’ve already met Ennis. His wife, Kali, is currently out of town on a job interview. She is applying for a teacher job at Stanford, and if everything goes well, she and Ennis will be moving there within the month. Right now they’re staying at a smaller cabin a couple hundred yards away from the main house.” Peter chuckled at some joke only he could hear as they turned up towards the preserve “The pups are your age, I’m guessing, considering that you haven’t actually told me how old you are yet. Oh, and you won’t be the only human living with us, as both Chris and his daughter, Allison, are human.”

 

Stiles flinched at the names. It could be a coincidence. It didn’t have to mean that he would be facing the Argents. But he knew it wasn’t. The reaction caught Peter’s attention though, and the wolf silently stopped the car before turning in his seat, looking at Stiles expectantly. 

 

“Lydia said you used to know us. She also said something about death, and you asked me why I didn’t run, so I’m guessing something bad happened before you came here. Now, I won’t pressure you, but I would like you to know that I will put my pack’s well-being before anything, or anyone. Now. Is there anything you feel that I should know, not only for their protection, but for yours as well?” Peter’s voice was serious, and the soothing scent that had filled the car during the ride was quickly turning, leaving Stiles with the impression the air held just before a storm, making him want to bare his throat.

 

So he told him. The words were stilted at first, his voice cracking from the lack of use, but he pushed them out. He told Peter about the world ending, about how the world economy broke and how the technology soon died as well. He told him about Melissa. About Derek. His dad. Erica, Boyd and Isaac. Lydia. Jackson. Allison. Chris Argent. Scott. Peter. He told him about how they had all died, some tidbits of how they had lived, but kept his relationship with before-Peter silent. It didn’t feel right to tell him for some reason. When Stiles was finally out of words and his voice had dried up, Peter just stared at him. The wolf hadn’t said a word whilst Stiles told his story, and the silence now made the younger male antsy, the desire to bare his throat flaring up again. 

 

“Will you be okay with seeing them again, or should I call Deaton and tell him that we need to find you another place to stay?” Peter spoke so calmly that it took Stiles a second to realize just what the other man had said, and when the words finally got through his brain, he was quick to reassure him.

 

“I’ll be fine. Eventually. I can’t promise that I won’t have minor freakouts, but I promise I won’t, I just, please don’t send me away?” The pain and fear coming from the thought of losing Peter once more almost drowned him, whispering voices in his head asking why the wolf would even put up with him, what did he expect?

 

Peter just stared at him for a long moment before he nodded and started driving once more.

 

“Let me know if it all gets too much for you.” 

 

Those were the last words spoken on the matter, but Stiles didn’t have any doubts that they wouldn’t discuss it again, because no matter which world he had ended up in, this was Peter after all. 

 

The rest of the drive was done in silence, and it didn’t take them long until the woodland gave way to a pebbled driveway, and Stiles could see a huge house at the end of it. The house, mansion really, had two floors and a porch. It was painted in a dark brown, almost making it blend with the surrounding woods, the only contrast being the huge white window frames and front door. There was also a connected garage that seemed to fit three cars, not including the motorcycle parked to the side. Stiles had never seen the Hale house before the fire, but he figured that it must have looked something like this, a home. 

  
Peter stopped the car just in front of the house and killed the engine before stepping out, leaving Stiles to scramble out to catch up, the wolf already on the first step smirking at him. He took a deep breath as they closed in on the door. And then he barked out a laugh when he saw the doormat in front of it. A beige one with black writing and matching pawprints covering it, saying “ **WIPE YOUR PAWS** ”. Peter just sighed before he turned the handle. This was it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Come chat with me on tumblr, I promise I don't bite. Unless you ask me to ;) As always, comments and kudos make my insides tingle ;)


	3. Exercitus sine duce corpus est sine spiritu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last; Here is the third chapter of this beloved disaster! I'm terribly sorry for the wait, but life has been busy for me. I'm equally sorry to inform that the next chapter won't appear before sometime in June, since my finals starts next week.
> 
> It's come to my attention that there's a plot-hole in the last chapter, considering Scott's appearence. However sorry I am for allowing that to happen, I must say that what is done is done. So we'll just say that he gets his looks from his mother, eh?
> 
> As always; My amazing thanks to my lovely Dena who beta'd this chapter, kept me sane as I slowly lost my mind, and is in general the most amazing person I know! Any other mistake is my own and not on her cape.
> 
> General information about this chapter:  
> It's written in Peter's pov, and it contains a smut scene. Please be gentle considering it is my first ever smut scene.

_An army without a leader is a body without a spirit_

 

* * *

 

 

Peter Hale was a lot of things, if he was being honest with himself. He was smart, strong, a good alpha, and a living piece of art. What he was not, however, was a caretaker. Nor was he accustomed to having a living shadow following him around like a lost puppy trailing after its mother’s tail. At first it had been amusing, even slightly flattering, despite knowing the reason behind it. But after nearly two weeks without five minutes alone, save those precious moments where he could hide away either in the bathroom or the safety of his own bedroom, Peter was starting to grow tired. After several unsuccessful tries to shove Stiles onto one of the pups of the house, and even some where he tried showing the omega the pleasure to be found in Alan Deaton’s company, he found himself at his wits end. Though really, he couldn’t blame the omega for not taking a liking to Deaton. He seemed like a reasonable and intelligent person, after all.

 

The first time he had left the omega without informing him, he had simply gone into his office, the only soundproof room in the entire house, to make a phone call to Lydia Martin. In the middle of interrogating the banshee he was interrupted by Erica pounding on the door, and a quick message that the stray omega he’d brought home was now busy having a panic attack. It had taken Peter the better part of an hour to calm him down.

 

He knew he should smother this behavior at birth. He knew it, and he would have done it, if it hadn’t been for that damn explanation Stiles had given him in the car. If he hadn’t heard how Stiles had lost his pack, which still made Peter’s wolf curl up to think about, and how the omega had seen so much death and suffering... If he hadn’t heard that, he was sure he wouldn’t have found himself where he was now. 

 

The Hale house office had been Peter’s sanctuary since he was a pup himself. Back when his father had been the alpha, Peter had often hidden in there, curled up in a chair with a book too large and with too big words for such a young mind to process, hiding from his sister’s terrorizing self. Talia had early on adopted the mindset that Peter was her younger brother, and therefore, she was to protect him and keep him safe at all times. Sadly, that included babying him to the point of near madness. 

 

Their father had hummed amusedly whenever he witnessed it, but he  _ did  _ allow Peter to take refuge in his office, installing the mindset in his children that the room was sacred. As he got older, and Talia took their father’s place as the pack alpha, Peter continued to find refuge there. Sitting in silence beside his sister had become one of his favourite ways to pass time, head deep in a book, or sometimes even helping Talia figure out ways to cunningly remove threats to the pack without the human law enforcement's involvement. 

 

After Talia’s death, the office had taken another meaning in Peter’s life. Not only did it give him the safety he craved, and living with a pack full of pups, one tended to seek refuge and silence where one could, but it was also the place he himself felt the most in control. He had taken his father’s ways to heart, and informed every single one of the pups that the office was a safe haven for those who needed it, but foremost, it was a place for him to work. Usually he got peace when he decided to venture in there. But since Stiles arrived, peace turned to a thing of the past, alongside silence and solitude. 

 

Sitting behind his desk, Peter couldn’t help but let his eyes wander towards his living shadow. Stiles looked better now than he had when he first arrived, though it wasn’t a very hard feat to achieve. He still had dark circles under his eyes, ever present testaments to his lack of sleep, though he would deny it if ever asked. His cheeks had started filling in some, color coming back to them, though he was still too thin, too pale for Peter’s liking. His hair had been cut short at the hospital, almost a clean shave, though it was starting to come back in now, making him look even younger than he was. He had taken to stealing Peter’s old clothes, despite the fact that Peter had, somewhat unwillingly, handed over his credit card to Lydia and Erica two days after Stiles had come to live with them. The girls left with gleeful faces, and returned hours later with everything someone might find themselves in need of, or even just wanting. Shoes, socks, underwear, pants and sweaters. Colorful t-shirts and thick scarves. Everything designed to appeal to an Omega’s desire for the soft and warm. And Stiles hardly wore any of it. Instead he continued dressing himself in Peter’s old sweats and hoodies, clothes left over from his college years, much to the pups’ amusement. 

 

Peter shifted in his seat. It felt strange to have him here, or more so to not always realize that he was there. In truth, while Peter did wish for five minutes to himself, only five minutes without hearing a hummingbird pulse or the constant shifting of one body part or another, he didn’t think he would be able to relax should those moments come to pass. Stiles’ scent was so integrated in his nose that he feared his wolf’s reaction to its absence. Breathing in deeply, Peter sorted through the scents of the room, until only one stood out. When he had first seen him at the hospital, Stiles had smelled of decay and death mixed with fear, a scent that left Peter’s wolf whimpering in his chest, a need to check his pack clawing at his insides. Now he smelled like fresh cut grass and summer sun, hints of orange and lemon, and a distinct sweetness that came with his secondary gender. 

 

Opening his eyes, not having realized that he had closed them, Peter found himself staring into whiskey colored eyes holding a pain that seemed too great for such a young soul to carry. A second later, Stiles blinked, and the hints of pain that he had seen was gone. 

 

“How are you doing? Everything considered, of course,” he asked, truly curious for once.

 

“I’m fine.” Stiles replied instantly, as if he’d expected the question, and rehearsed the answer in his mind.

 

“Really?”

 

A sigh and a skip of the hummingbird pulse was his only answer. Peter knew, logically, that it had to be hard for the omega to settle into this new world. Not only had he lost his entire pack, but he’d regained them at the same time, only not quite. Whilst he knew everyone to some extent, they didn’t know him. As Stiles buried his face in his book once more, one that Ms.Martin had been so gracious to bring him, Peter considered the omega’s meeting with the pack. 

 

\---

 

When they had first entered the house, Peter could have sworn that Stiles would flee. The omega had been pale and shaking, fear penetrating his scent, making the hairs the back of Peter’s neck stand on end. Stiles had followed him so closely through the house that if Peter were to stop, the omega would surely have walked straight into him. He had graciously ignored the hand curled in the back of his jacket. The first person they stumbled upon had been Derek, and perhaps that was for the best, considering that his nephew’s  _ very special power _ was to stand in place like a statue. Honestly, it was like they weren’t related at all, with the scowl Derek continued sporting. The moment when Stiles laid eyes on Derek stood out like a truck driving through the wall, his heartbeat almost deafening and his scent filled with so much grief and pain that it made both wolves flinch, a wordless whine ripping itself from Derek’s throat.

 

When no one spoke, Peter took it upon himself to make the introductions. Honestly, being the alpha was such dull work sometimes.

 

“Nephew. This is Stiles. Stiles, this is my nephew, Derek Hale. Don’t allow the scowl to confuse you, he lacks the ability to be a threat to anything more cunning than a fly.” Peter smirked at the low growl Derek let out before he continued, slightly raising his voice, fully aware that the rest of the pack was listening in. “Now, everyone. I’m sure you’re all aware that there’s a newcomer in the house. He’s our guest and I expect you all to treat him with the utmost respect. Remember, you’re all a reflection of me, unfortunately, so please do pretend that I have you somewhat house-trained.”

 

He had tuned out the pack’s responses in order to focus on the trembling omega hiding behind him. The hand fisted in his jacket was now impossible to ignore, the fabric making agonized groans, near silent threats to tear.

 

He had ended up leading Stiles to his office, and over the next two weeks, every time Stiles seemed too overwhelmed ( _ when he first laid eyes on Erica, he threw up on the floor, heart racing and tears running down his cheeks _ ) Peter would take him there. The room itself seemed to give Stiles the same safety and reassurance that it gave Peter, the golden eyed omega always curling up in the same chair Peter favored as a child, though the chair seemed to have moved closer to his desk, inch by inch, since Stiles arrived. 

 

\---

 

Peter was ripped from his thoughts when Stiles’ heartbeat started beating at an alarming rate, his head snapping up to look at the omega so quickly that he felt a strain on his neck, wolf ready to defend against any threats. Only, when he took in the image the omega presented, he wasn’t prepared for the blush rising across the younger male’s cheeks. Nor the scent of embarrassment following it. 

 

“What are you reading to give you such a reaction?” 

 

It said too much about how little Peter really knew Stiles, that he wasn’t entirely sure that the answer wouldn’t be porn, and that was a fact he didn’t appreciate. However, now was not the time to dwell on such thoughts, not when the omega was squirming in his seat, refusing to meet his gaze.

 

“Uh.. I.. This book..” Stiles shifted once more and cleared his throat, cheeks and ears now near crimson, still refusing to meet Peter’s eyes. “It’s very graphic.” 

 

Peter merely raised an eyebrow. As silence twisted around them, Stiles seemed unable to sit still, and less so to look directly at Peter, much to the alpha’s amusement. He silently wondered what exactly the young and fierce Ms.Martin had brought the young omega to induce such a reaction, and which gift would be appropriate to express his gratitude, for surely, without her influence this moment wouldn’t have come to pass. And Peter had early on learned to recognize the moments that would matter. After a few minutes of this seemingly awkward silence, Stiles cracked, and when he finally asked what was on his mind, Peter almost swallowed his tongue.

 

“Do you really… You know.. Do you really have a  _ knot _ ? You know.. _ Like a dog? _ ” The last part was uttered as a mere whisper, and if Stiles had been blushing before, he now looked like he had spent the better half, and more than that, of a week on the sun.

 

“What.” Peter wasn’t sure how to respond; should he laugh or should he cry? Didn’t this boy know  _ anything _ ?

 

“I know, it’s stupid! It’s just.. This book is supposed to be a textbook of some sort on the whole secondary gender subject? But when I got to the whole alpha part it mentioned knotting? And I’m not sure if Lydia’s aware of it, but I think she got me some wrongfully published fanfiction? I mean, it can’t be right, of course it can’t. Just ignore it. Ignore me. I’m sorry for even asking.” Stiles closed the book with a harsh thud, and it looked like he wanted nothing more than to escape the room, except the fact that that included leaving Peter behind. 

 

Peter was still stuck on the fact that the boy didn’t seem to possess any kind of information on the physical differences between the genders, and really, what kind of world did he come from? With a heavy sigh he stretched his neck, mentally preparing himself, before looking straight into Stiles’ eyes.

 

“I’m going to give you  _ the talk _ . You will shut up until I’m finished, then you may ask questions, but after that we’ll never mention this again. Deal?”

 

He could hear Stiles’ throat working, and the ever present hummingbird heartbeat was still too fast, but then the younger man nodded. Peter sighed again.

 

Peter had memories of the time when his father had tried giving him the talk, memories burned into his skull by the force of embarrassment and horror, of when his father had explained to him all about his responsibilities as a alpha. Explained how as a wolf, if he chose to take a human mate, they would be more fragile than their wolf counterparts, and he would have to keep his strength in check. He explained that human omegas, contrary to popular belief, was more durable than human betas. His father had instilled the idea of consent in his head, saying again and again that one should never take it for granted, always check in with your partner, always keep communicating. He considered how to begin explain it all to Stiles, when his mouth opened without permission, and it seemed like his father was talking through him.

 

\---

 

“... And the knot will usually stay inflated for twenty to thirty minutes during a heat or rut, but usually not any longer than fifteen during regular sex. Any questions?”

 

If Peter had a heart, he might have been concerned for the omega’s mental stability, and the fact that it sounded like his heart was about to beat out of his chest. He’d refrained from making comments during the talk though, and Peter was pretty sure that he’d covered everything necessary, between the heats and knots and male omega pregnancies. 

 

“I.. How.. No.” Stiles shook his head so hard that it actually  _ did  _ make Peter slightly worried. He had a strong suspicion that Ms.Martin wouldn’t look too kindly on it if the omega managed to get whiplash while in Peter’s care. 

 

“Good.” 

 

\---

 

When Peter opened his eyes the next day all he wanted to do was close them again, turn his back to 

the door, and sleep some more. He was getting agitated and growly and - and how didn’t he notice that he was approaching his rut? He had all the pack members’ cycles, and as the alpha, it was his responsibility to make sure that they were all safe and comfortable. And most importantly, to make sure the freezer was stocked with peanut butter cup ice cream for Erica. It didn’t make sense that he should forget his own rut. Somehow, the knowledge didn’t suddenly spur his body into movement, and it still took him minutes to drag himself out of bed, and even longer to finally take a shower and get dressed.

 

When he opened his bedroom door he’s not surprised to see Stiles leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest, nibbling on his bottom lip. And Peter knows it’s just his hormones going nuts, but this morning Stiles is  _ radiant _ . His lips looks softer, his skin smoother, and his hair seems to have an unnatural shine to it. And his scent, dear lord, his scent hits Peter like a semi truck - it’s so sweet and filled with home and security and  _ omega _ . Shaking his head doesn’t do much to clear his mind, so Peter walks away before he does something stupid, like dragging the poor omega back into his bedroom and not letting him leave. He doesn’t have to strain his ears to hear Stiles’ footsteps behind him, and how the omega survived so long during the end of his world before he showed up in theirs will forever be a mystery to Peter. The kid is always making noise, either by tapping his fingers or skipping his feet.

 

“Good morning.” 

 

Oh lord, what did Peter do to deserve this? Even the kid’s voice is unreal, and now he can’t stop imagining it saying his name, moaning it, whispering it, screaming it and - and he really had to get away. 

 

“I’m going downtown today to get some supplies.” He said, not bothering to turn and look at the omega trailing him.

 

“Can I come?” 

 

_ Yes. _

 

“No.”

 

The hammering heartbeat echoing through his ears is almost enough to make Peter change his mind, but he knows that he was given the responsibility of keeping the omega safe, and with hormones flooding his mind he can’t focus enough to do so. The footsteps behind him stopped, and while for some reason he really wanted to go back and apologize, he kept walking. When he got to the stairs, the salty scent coming from behind him stopped him dead in his tracks. He sighed heavily and spoke over his shoulder without bothering to look back.

 

“We’re leaving in thirty minutes. And we’re bringing Erica.”

 

\---

 

Bringing Stiles and Erica downtown turned out to be one of Peter’s best ideas, though he would deny it until the day he died. Stiles had circled the young shewolf for the entire car ride, but when Peter parked the car at the local mall, the two were snickering and bantering behind his back, and it didn’t take werewolf ears to know they were discussing marvel vs DC. He wondered if he would have to separate the two, but in the end he figured if they could entertain each other, he could get the supplies he needed. And if there was one thing he really,  _ really  _ didn’t need - it was to bring Stiles and Erica with him to a sex shop.

 

“I’m gonna get some stuff, and I’ll meet you both at the coffee shop in thirty minutes, okay?” Peter said, effectively breaking up the batman vs superman argument between the pups.

 

“We’re not coming with you?” Stiles asked with a quiet voice, looking around him for the first time since they arrived, “Wouldn’t it be better if we all stuck together?”

 

“I have some errands to run, and while your company is appreciated, I think I’ll be able to do them on my own.” Peter didn’t mention that he really needed to get five minutes to himself.

 

“Don’t worry, Batman, we’ll be fine,” Erica said as she threw a hand over Stiles’ shoulders, “Besides, without grumpy here we can go check out the video game store!”

 

Peter tried smiling encouragingly at Stiles, and when the young omega nodded hesitantly, he didn’t run away. He power walked. 

 

\---

 

Peter had never quite understood the excitement behind sex shops. He would be the first to admit that sometimes what you really needed to spice up things was a good sex toy, but when you looked like Peter Hale, why would you ever need to get a substitute, a poorly made, silicone smelling toy, when you could have a warm body in your bed? Looking at the people in the shop, though, he could understand why they needed to buy their pleasure in shops. His eyes trailed to the walls covered in flashlights, prostate vibrators and anal toys, doing a double take at one of the more aesthetically pleasing anal plugs. 

 

The plug wasn’t the largest one he’d seen by far, but it was the most beautiful one, with clear glass with a drop design inside. He didn’t need it, and he hadn’t come here to buy any toys, but the plug came with him to the register along with four 16oz pump bottles of passion lubes. The young female beta who stood in the register smiled sweetly at him, pushing her chest out, scent sweet and filled with arousal. Normally he would flirt and play off his natural charm, especially this close to his rut, and bring the girl home for a week long sex marathon, but he couldn’t find it in him. He couldn’t force his lips to smirk, when all they wanted was to smile politely, and while he figured in any other circumstance her scent would be pleasing, if not downright mouth watering, it wasn’t right. He shook the thoughts out of his head as he went in search of his lost pups. 

 

His first stop was at the video game store, having a vague memory of Erica proclaiming that they could be found there, but when all he saw was teenagers talking about some new game, he felt his heart beat a tad harder. His alpha instincts were intensified by his oncoming rut, and the need to keep his pack safe and together was starting to get harder to ignore. 

 

By the time he caught Erica’s scent he was close to ripping at the seams, and if people had the self-preservative instincts to get out of his way as he approached, it really was for the best. He found the pair sitting at one of the malls many cafes, Erica lounging in her chair with some sort of sugar monstrosity in front of her, and Stiles. Stiles was sitting straight in his chair, back facing the wall, eyes skipping from patron to patron. His body language was screaming prey, and Peter had to contain a growl as he stalked towards them. 

 

“There you are, alpha o’ alpha,” Erica said when he sat down between them, “What took you so long?”

 

“Weren’t you supposed to be at the video game store?” Peter bit out.

 

“You took forever, so we decided to come here and wait. If you checked your phone you might have known sooner.” Erica smirked.

 

Peter didn’t dignify her with a response, only huffed at her and turned towards Stiles. The omega’s body language had calmed down since he sat down, and his inner alpha preened at the idea that  _ he  _ gave the stability the omega craved, and then he noticed the bags sitting underneath the table. 

 

“Been shopping, have we?” He asked.

 

“Erica brought me to a crafting store. And I found some yarn I liked and some knitting needles, so Erica offered to pay it for me.” 

 

Stiles was squirming in his seat, scent filled with nerves and embarrassment that made Peter’s wolf howl inside his chest, so Peter did the only thing that came naturally to him. He placed his hand across the back of Stiles seat, fingers stroking the omega’s neck carefully, and smiled.

 

“Well, I guess it’s not a hobby, it’s a post-apocalypse skill?”

 

Stiles’ laugh made the terrible pun worth it.

 

\---

 

Getting back to the house was both a blessing and a curse. Erica whisked Stiles away as soon as the car stopped moving, throwing a look over her shoulder at him, letting him know with her eyes that it was time. From the time Peter got his first rut at fifteen, he’d always hated the lock down. He could see the use of it, of course, especially with over half the pack being wolves. It wouldn’t do well if one of them got loose and hurt someone in a hormone filled haze. 

 

When his great-grandfather had built the house, he’d included two rooms in the basement, both with doors locking from the outside - one for the omegas, and one for the alphas. The rooms were reinforced with steel strong enough to hold an alpha werewolf, and specially ventilated to ensure that the scent wouldn’t attract the wrong kind of attention. Despite the remodeling done to the rooms, Peter still thought it looked too much like a prison cell. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, and he could never seem to catch enough air in his few clear moments. 

 

Collecting the essentials brought another challenge, seeing as his wolf had somehow got the idea that Stiles was supposed to come down with him. It didn’t help that when he walked towards the basement door, he could hear Erica explaining to the omega that Peter would be gone for a week, forcing Stiles’ heartbeat to pick up in rhythm and his breaths to come too fast. In a desperate attempt at getting away from the heartbreaking fear that Stiles continued to embody, Peter simply grabbed a change of clothes from the bathroom hamper, and picked up his bag on the way to the basement. 

 

It wasn’t until he got down there and Boyd had locked the door with a solemn face that he noticed his error. In his attempt to escape Stiles, he’d brought Stiles’ shirt down with him. Perhaps it was wrong, and maybe he would feel like an asshole when his head got screwed on straight, or even worse, maybe he wouldn’t be able to look Stiles in the eyes. It wasn’t important in that moment, and with his hormones drowning his thoughts and clouding his mind, Peter fisted the shirt in front of his face and took a deep breath of that amazing smell. 

 

\---

 

_ Stiles arched his back, baring his neck for Peter’s pleasure, a filthy moan leaving his lips. Peter had never seen anyone more beautiful. The scent of the omega’s arousal was heavy in the air, the sweet tang of midnight lillies and warmth. He leaned down to nip on the offering presented to him, grinding into Stiles’ wet heat, drawing another moan from the omega. When Stiles started to grind back against him, Peter straightened up and started pounding, hands holding his hips in place, Peter fought to keep focus enough to keep his claws from popping out. He could feel his knot starting to inflate, and the thought of filling Stiles up with his pups almost made him lose all self control.  _

 

_ “Are you gonna take my knot, pup?” Peter growled. _

 

_ Stiles’ only response was a long whine, hands grabbing the sheets underneath him. Peter grinned.  _

 

_ When his knot finally caught on Stiles’ rim, Peter slammed his hips as close as possible, leaving no space between them. Stiles whined again, and he couldn’t contain his answering growl, grinding his knot as far in as he could. He shifted them so they were laying on their sides, his hand traveling over the omegas side and stomach, purposely ignoring his straining cock.  _

 

_ “Do you want me to touch you?” Peter asked, lightly trailing his fingers over Stiles’ stomach. _

 

_ “Please!”  _

 

_ “Are you sure?” _

 

_ “Peter, please, please.” _

 

_ Peter grinned into the back of Stiles’ neck as he gripped his cock firmly in his hand. Stiles strained towards his hand, rim tightening almost painfully on his knot, as Peter began stroking him in a fast rhythm. Stiles came with Peter’s name on his lips. _

 

When Peter opened his eyes he was lying in the rut room alone, stomach and thighs sticky with cum. It wasn’t the first time he’d lost himself in fantasies of Stiles, nor did he imagine it would be the last. Thoughts about the omega haunted him, and even in his clear moments, Peter found himself thinking about him for some strange reason. He couldn’t deny that he had a curiosity about the omega, or that he felt a need to protect him, but he didn’t understand how the pup had gone from guest to possible mate. He closed his eyes once more, hoping to catch some rest while his hormones were held at bay by his recent orgasm. God knew he needed it.

 

\---

 

Six days, four hours, and an uncountable amount of orgasms later, Peter finally emerged from the prison cell they called a rut room. The bright lights of the basement hallway blinded him, and the sounds and scents of the house almost stopped his mind, as he stumbled out the door. His body felt weak, and all he wanted to do was stumble up to his bedroom and faceplant on the bed for at least a week straight. Or, he really wanted a shower. He could sleep in the shower, but that wouldn’t be comfortable, would it? 

 

Mind fighting over which course of action to take first, Peter didn’t notice the small body curled up by the stairs. Cursing as he stepped on something sharp, he noticed the scent that had haunted him for a week. Stiles. 

 

“Ow, what the fuck?” Stiles said, glaring up at him with an impressive scowl.

 

“I could ask you the same thing. What on earth are you doing down here?” Peter asked, balancing on one foot and rubbing the underside of the other in his hand. Werewolf healing didn’t mean that things didn’t hurt.

 

When Stiles didn’t answer Peter took the time to take a closer look at the omega, noticing for the first time that the dark circles that had started to disappear before his rut were now back with full force. His normally hummingbird fast heartbeat had slowed down, and now only resembled the speed a normal heart would have after sprinting for the bus. Peter frowned.

 

“Have you been sleeping at all?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

There was no glitch in his heartbeat to indicate a lie. Peter wasn’t fully convinced, but as exhaustion snuck up on him, he figured that as long as everyone was alive that would have to be acceptable. Sneaking past Stiles he started walking up the stairs when he heard a loud crash from above, followed by Isaac and Erica’s frantic cursing. He could feel the heat of Stiles’ body behind him and if he closed his eyes, he could almost picture the way it would feel to have him press into him for safety, how it would feel to know that he was considered an acceptable mate for the omega. 

 

Wait, what?

 

Peter shook his head on the way up the stairs, silently cursing the remaining hormones in his system, because surely that was the only reason he would think such things about the pup. When they walked out through the basement door Peter could practically hear the way Erica and Isaac’s heads snapped towards them through the kitchen wall. Heading that way Peter couldn’t help but imagine a life where he was a simple beta, where the responsibility of the pack didn’t rest on his shoulders - and the image was a pretty one, sure, but he didn’t think he would ever be the kind of person to allow power to fall to someone else. Peter had never taken orders well, and he couldn’t imagine that it would be different elsewhere, no matter where he went. 

 

When he entered the kitchen he was confronted with a scene that confused his mind, unable to grasp whether he was supposed to laugh or cry, as the two younger pups’ faces were covered in flour. As were the kitchen floor and counter. When the pups looked at him with innocent faces he simply arched an eyebrow before turning on his heel.

 

“If that isn’t cleaned by the time I wake up, we’ll have a beautiful contrast of white and blood red decorating our kitchen,” he threw over his shoulder as he started walking towards the stairs connecting the first and second floor. And if he ignored the mess surrounding his every step, and the omega following hot in his heels, well, no one would complain. 

 

\---

 

When Peter woke up, the sun was shining, birds were singing, and there was an awful clicking sound coming from right outside his door. He cursed. Ripping the sheets of his body and pouncing at the door, he ripped it open simply to find Stiles tumbling through it and straight onto his legs.

 

“What are you doing?” He asked, trying to contain the thoughts of murder swirling around his head.

 

“I’m sitting?” Stiles answered, looking up at him from the floor.

 

“Why are you sitting by my bedroom door?”

 

“I needed somewhere quiet to concentrate, and I figured I could kill two birds with one stone if I did that here. Where I could make sure no one disturbed you.” 

 

“Concentrate for what?”

 

“I’m knitting you a sweater.”

  
Peter wasn’t sure if the warm feeling in his stomach was desire to commit first degree homicide, or some stray sort of affection. In lieu of answering, he simply rolled his eyes before stepping over the omega and towards the bathroom. After all, they did say that there was no rest for the wicked, and somehow Peter fit into that category.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! As always, comments and kudos makes my happy place tingle ;) Come visit me on [tumblr](http://www.cute-as-hale.tumblr.com), and if you want; You can track the tag Actus Fic on tumblr for updates about the fic. 


	4. This is not another chapter, simply an update.

Dear readers.

 

I'm not sure if there's anyone who's still waiting for an update for this fic, but if there is, then this message is to you.

 

I'm terribly sorry for the long wait, and I know that I promised to have the fourth chapter done by the beginning of June, or the ending of my exams, and as I'm sure you've noticed, there hasn't been an update. I'm going through a really rough patch lately, and sadly, that's influencing my muse and motivation to write. I am working on the chapter, and despite the fact that it's moving along slower than a snail, it will eventually come. I just can't give a guarantee for when. The entire point of this update is simply to let you all know that I haven't abandoned this fic, I haven't shelved it, and I haven't forgotten it. I'm sorry.

 

If you're still waiting for an update, please remember, those who wait for something good does not wait in vain. It's coming. I promise.

 

Much love to you all,

To all and any Americans who might read this: Happy 4th of July tomorrow. Celebrate with passion and care. 

 

 - Cute.


	5. Tempus fugit, non autem memoria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. I can't begin to describe not only how overwhelmed I was at the reactions to the previous "chapter", but the gratefulness I have for it, not without ending up writing a novels worth of thanks - so I'll keep it short. Thank you. I know I probably should respond to the comments, but truth be told, I don't want them to disappear and be marked as "read", because I find myself looking at them several times a day. Those comments mean the world to me.
> 
> Now, you will probably need a little bit of information of this chapter. There are two POV's here. Both Stiles, as the main character so no one should be surprised at this, and Peter makes an appearance within the author voice today. The change of POV will be marked with three lines "---" before the beginning and ending of the new POV.
> 
> I can't give you a date for when the next chapter will be up, but I'll promise you that I'll work on it with every free moment I have.
> 
> A very special thank you is going towards [TriDom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TriDom) and [Dena](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DenaCeleste), as both of these amazing and divine creatures have not only helped keep my morale up, but also helped me get this fic finished and published. You are both angels and I'm eternally grateful. If I ever meet someone worth speaking of (Like, for example, Castiel (Be still my heart)) I will remember to mention you.

_ Time flies, but not memory. _

 

* * *

 

 

There was a spot in the preserve, a small clearing meant to be some sort of memorial - built by the Hale pack generations and generations back, a legacy for those to come, to remind them of those who had been. Peter had once told him that in the beginning - when his great, great, great, great, great, oh so many great’s grandparent’s had made it, the clearing had simply just been cleaned from rocks and trees, a simple spot of green grass in the middle of all the wilderness. Somewhere along the lines someone had gotten the idea to plant flowers, simple spuds from the wildflowers growing in the woods, something to bring color and personality. Thus a tradition had been started. 

 

White and pink Carnations for remembrance and gratitude, respectfully. Begonias for deep thought. Chrysanthemum Cosmos symbolizing peaceful. Delphinium for boldness, Daffodil for chivalry. Daisy’s for innocence. Gladiolus for strength of character, Pancy for loving thoughts. Wild Roses, white for purity, pink for admiration, yellow for friendships. And sky blue Forget-Me-Not’s.

 

A memorial site filled with life. Most of the wolves wouldn’t go to close, the constant buzzing of the bees and flutter of butterfly wings too much for their ears to handle over time, but Peter would always take Stiles when he asked. And when he didn’t. The first time he’d taken him was after Stiles had a big fight with his dad, just before the sheriff even knew about the supernatural. Stiles had shown up at the Hale house with fear, grief and sadness radiating off him, tears that refused to fall, a stillness to his limbs that didn’t correspond with the image they all had of him - the spazzy kid that never stood still. Peter had simply looked at him, crooked a finger and walked out the back door. Stiles could still remember the conflicting feelings - the need to lick his wounds raging against his  _ need  _ to know, to still his curiosity. He’d followed Peter’s retreating back before his mind had even made itself up. He hadn’t known how long they were walking, his human senses unable to distinguish the path from trees that looked the same - he’d just continued following Peter in silence. When they reached the clearing Peter stopped abruptly, nodding towards it, not saying a word, and suddenly Stiles understood why. There was no words needed, no words that could describe it, the sudden feeling of peace. The sudden silence from the rest of the world, the only sound being the faint buzzing from bees and chirping from birds. He didn’t know how long they stayed there, neither saying a word, but when they returned to the house the moon was high on the horizon and Stiles had ten missed calls from his dad.

 

Stiles continued going back there. To the clearing. To the peaceful feeling that surrounded it. 

 

Sometimes Peter would come with him, leading him in silence. Sometimes he would find Peter already there. Sometimes it was the other way around. They never talked during those moments, like they’d somehow come to a silent agreement that this place, this one place, would be free from the snark, the arguing, the pretence. That when they were there, they didn’t have to be the weak human and crazy-killer-unwanted-undead uncle. They were just them. Just Stiles Stilinski and Peter Hale.

 

It wasn’t until months into their little arrangement that things changed. Stiles didn’t know what did it. Perhaps it was the fact that Derek had thrown Laura’s murder in Peter’s face, yet again, or perhaps it was the fact that Scott had yet again canceled on Stiles to be with Allison. Perhaps it was a mixture between the two. Perhaps it was neither of those things. But something changed. 

 

Something changed because when they met in the clearing one day, they started talking. Or, Stiles started talking. He told Peter everything. He told him about his mom, about how the memory of her warm hands running through his hair was starting to fade. He told him about his dad, about the fear he harboured of the older man turning to the bottle yet again, and yet again forcing his son to clean the mess. He told him about Scott, about how they’d been friends for years, about how they were brothers and brothers didn’t ditch each other for girls, did they? He told him about school. About lacrosse. About the books he was reading. He told him about the fear he couldn’t shake, the small voice in his head telling him that he was just a weak human, that one day he would either be killed himself, or be unable to save everyone around him. He told Peter everything. It was like the agreement that words wouldn’t be shared between them had changed; like it now said that the words shared would be the truth, the secrets too heavy to carry by themselves.

 

When he ran out of words he figured that the silence would embrace them again. That that would be it. He briefly wondered if the feeling of having bared his heart would bring the panic sure to come, but when it didn’t, he blamed it on the clearing. On the peaceful feeling that refused to allow fear, pain or heartbreak to enter it’s space. 

 

When Peter one day started talking, it didn’t take him by surprise as he’d figured it would, instead it just felt like a missing piece of the puzzle making it’s way to the board. Like the image was finally ready to reveal itself.

 

Peter told him about growing up as the youngest in a house filled with wolves. He told him about his sisters, about how Mia was the oldest; how she’d married into another pack, moved to Ireland after meeting a young tourist called Emily and falling in love. He told him about Talia, the middle child never meant to take on the role of matriarch, but who wore the crown with dignity and pride, how she would have done everything in her power to save her family. He told him about his first crush, a young human boy named Chase, a grade higher than him in school, he told him about the heartbreak when Chase turned out to be completely straight and falling for Susan. He told him about how when Talia got married, Peter had been the one to walk her up the aisle, and how proud he’d been when Laura got born. He told him about comforting a three year old Laura convinced that her mother’s love would now only go to the bundle of joy growing in her belly. He told him about holding Derek in his arms for the first time. He told him about chipped teeth and first changes, about childhood fears soothed by a loving uncle’s touch. He told him about Cora, the youngest of the three Hale siblings, about her courage and her wild nature. He told him about the fire, the pain, the death, the smells and sounds. He told him about the coma, about being confined to a chair for years and years, stewing in the pain and fear. He told him about the taste of Laura’s blood on his tongue. 

 

Peter told him everything, and Stiles silently vowed to every deity pressant, that the secrets would stay between them, that the burden was for their shoulders only. 

 

The clearing went from being a Hale memorial to  _ their  _ space, in Stiles’ head. It was where he first admitted to himself that Peter had gone from being that crazy-unwanted-undead werewolf to being Peter. To being someone Stiles could rely on, someone he could trust and depend on. Someone he could perhaps, maybe, if things went right and the stars aligned, perhaps fall in love with. After all, Stiles  _ did  _ have a type, and Peter fell right into that.

 

…

 

Stiles woke with a ghasp, tears falling freely from his eyes, staining his cheeks. It was like someone had dropped a mountain straight onto his celiac plexus, like he couldn’t draw a breath, like someone was stealing all the oxygen from the room, refusing him even the slightest bit. The pain was unbearable, like an ice cold fire radiating from his chest and out into every part of his body. It wasn’t right, nothing was right, he shouldn’t be here - he should be in the clearing, leaning against a tree, fingers tracing the petals of some flower, listening to the buzzing of the bees and chirps of the birds. He should be with Peter. 

 

Slowly, oh so slowly, he climbed out of the bed, legs barely able to hold his weight; each step he took felt like he was stepping on glass, each breath he drew barely felt like it was enough, but slowly, oh so slowly, he made his way out into the hallway. He didn’t know if anyone noticed, tears blurring his sight, as he made his way to the stairs. Making his way downstairs he could feel himself slipping away, like his mind was reeling so hard from the pain that it just decided to check out, just looking at the proceedings from his eyes without taking it in, leaving his body to function on auto pilot. 

 

He could see his hands reaching to open the front door, could hear the lock clicking, could feel the cold of the front porch seeping through his feet, but it was like his mind refused to acknowledge it. He wasn’t sure if he’d closed the door after him. He just walked.

 

Step.

 

By step.

 

By step.

 

One foot in front of the other, hands alternating between rubbing at his chest, trying in vain to soothe the ache away, and waving in the air to keep his balance. He could feel the frost on the ground, the leaves crunching beneath his feet, but he kept on walking. It was like some invisible force was driving him, like he had a metaphorical gun to his head - he didn’t understand it, but he knew he had to get  _ there _ . Like a child limping towards their home in search of their mother after scratching their knees, that instinct in their beings saying “There. There is safety. There is comfort. Go  _ there _ .” He just kept on walking.

 

Step.

 

By step.

 

By step.

 

His fingers felt numb, like small needles was repeatedly poking into them, the prickling traveling up his arms, his neck, his cheeks, his entire being. Some small voice inside his head whispered words he didn’t want to hear, words like dead. Gone. Useless. Human. He kept on walking. The trees looked the same, looked like shadows stretching across the sky, like they were aiming to cover the stars - like they were shielding it from him, or him from it. 

 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking when he heard it. A familiar voice calling in the winds.

 

“Stiles!”

 

It was like a siren's call, like the ones from the stories his dad used to tell him, old sailors tales of beings aiming to lure innocent men to their deaths - except Stiles had met one. He had fought one. He had heard the sweet lure of it’s voice, and he’d been fooled, but he wouldn’t do that again. He just had to get there. To the safeplace. To the clearing. Just a bit longer, one foot in front of the other, just a little bit further. He had to get there, because when he did, when he got to that clearing, when he stood amongst the flowers once more, perhaps the pain would go away. Maybe, just maybe, he would find that peace again. Find Peter again. His Peter. His pain in the ass, stubborn, mean, sadistic, sarcastic, gentle, sweet, caring Peter. All he had was that hope, and he couldn’t let it get away, he couldn’t be lured in by the voice calling for him.

 

“Stiles!”

 

He picked up the pace; staggering along the woodland floor. His breaths was coming in labored, harder now than before, and no matter how hard he tried to breathe in deeply, to give his lungs the air they so desired, it wouldn’t come.

 

“Stiles!”

 

The voice was closer now, carried in the hard wind coming from his back, driving him forward. He couldn’t stop moving. If he could only get to the clearing then everything would be okay, everything would be fine, and he could realize that all of this had just been a bad dream - he hadn’t somehow survived the end of the world and a gunshot to the head, he hadn’t somehow ended up in some crazy world where people weren’t just humans, where they were omegas and alphas and betas, where those terms didn’t just apply to werewolves. If he could only make it to the clearing, be surrounded by the rainbow of colors that only nature could provide, maybe he could wake up. 

 

“Stiles!”

 

He could hear footsteps now, hurried thumping sounds, like someone was running. Why would they be running? Were they trying to get to the clearing too? Were they lost too, drifting in the wind, forever doomed to relive their punishment, like Sisyphus doomed to forever push a boulder up a mountain wall, only to have it fall back down before he could reach the top? 

 

The footsteps were close now, right behind him, and suddenly there were hands on his shoulders, holding him back. No, no, no, why were they holding him back, he couldn’t stop - he had to keep moving. 

 

“Stiles, what are you doing?!” That voice. It was his, but not his, but still  _ his _ . Peter but not Peter.

 

He tried ripping his shoulders away, but the hands on them had a death grip, and no matter how hard he fought, he couldn’t get away. He tried turning towards him, tried clawing at his hands, shoulders, chest, face, his neck. He thrashed and kicked, screams ripping themselves from his throat, fighting with the little power he had left to escape.

 

“Stiles, relax!” Peter yelled, rearranging his grip so that he was holding Stiles towards him, chest to chest.

 

“No no no nononoo, I have to keep moving, I have to go, I have to go, I have to -” He said, words barely escaping between the sobs, before Peter interrupted him.

 

“Have to go where? Stiles, it’s in the middle of the night, and you’re freezing!” 

 

“I have to go, I have to be there, I have to be there!”

 

“Be where, Stiles, you’re not making any sense. What is going on?” Peter said, concern plainly on his face.

 

“To the clearing, I have to get to the clearing, it’s our place, just ours, Peter and me,” The words felt like acid, and he didn’t understand, why was this even a conversation? “I have to be there, I have to be at the clearing, he’ll find me there, Peter always finds me there.”

 

“Oh, Stiles,” The words were barely over a whisper, sighed into the top of his head, “How about you come back with me now, huh? We’ll get some warmth into you, check those feet of yours, and then we can talk about the clearing in the morning, hm?”

 

“I have to get to the clearing, he’s waiting for me, Peter’s waiting.” Stiles mumbled, adrenaline leaving his body, making his eyes drop and head heavy. “He’s waiting for me, I have to get to the clearing.”

 

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, pup. But right now, we’re going home.” Peter efficiently ended the conversation by hefting him up in his arms, carrying him in bridal style, turning to walk back to the house.

 

Stiles lazily nuzzled into his neck, dragging his nose against the barely there beard, taking in the scent oozing off it. He smelled like his Peter, but with a slight difference. He smelled like woods after the rain, like nature coming to life, like home. There were some underlying scents as well, something that made the hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck rise, a small whimper escape his lips. It smelled bitter; like rotten wood and decaying flowers. He could hear Peter shushing him, but it sounded like it was miles and miles away, a fog settled along his mind, dragging him down into the inevitable dark. 

 

…

 

“I don’t know, Deaton, he was stumbling around the preserve in his boxers in the middle of the night mumbling about some clearing!”

 

…

 

“Why isn’t he waking up?” 

 

“Maybe he’s not ready yet?”

 

“When will he be?”

 

A sigh.

 

“I don’t know, Erica. I don’t know.”

 

…

 

He drifted, from one memory to another, from one world to another, one Stiles to the other. He drifted from being Stiles Stilinski, son of John and Claudia Stilinski, the human of the Hale pack to just Stiles. The omega. The outsider. The newcomer. Memories shifted on the back of his eyelids like a movie, changing scenes faster than he was able to process. His mother’s hug turned into running through the preserve. Peter’s lips underneath his turned into Lydia’s hair flipping in his face. The sounds of the woods turned into Flintstock’s whistle. Derek’s frown turned into Scott’s grin. With a fleeting thought he wondered if this was how Peter had felt. Back when he’d been confined to a chair, stuck between the pain of the fire and the reality of the sensations brought by the hospital. He wondered, briefly, if this was how the wolf had felt - and how he had survived. 

 

\---

 

Peter knew he was pacing, that he should probably quit doing so before he agitated the pups more than they already were, before Christopher decided to go through with his threat to nail Peter’s feet to the floor - the man truly had no respect for his alpha, really - but the mere idea of standing still made his blood itch. It had been two days. Two days since he woke up in the middle of the night with a feeling of dread threatening to choke him, two days since his instincts had demanded that he checked his pack, made sure they were safe, make sure there was no threat, only to discover stiles bed empty. Two days since he’d ran out into the cold night, following a trail that spoke of the omegas passing hours ago, following and trying to keep his wolf in check. The image of the omega had burned itself onto the back of his eyelids, ever ready to jump at him as soon as he blinked.

 

Stiles had looked like a ghost when he found him. Skin pale in the moonlight, lips a dark blue, eyes lifeless and blurred with tears. He had looked nothing like the boy who had finally started to come out of his shell at the house - the body that Peter could have sworn would be lean was downright gaunt, ribs rising underneath the boy’s skin, even his face seemed to lack the hint of childhood roundness it had showed before, dark circles under his eyes. He had been whispering underneath his breath, the same words Peter had heard him utter at the hospital, words like  _ Gone  _ and  _ Dead  _ and  _ MineNotMine _ , words that held so much pain and despair in them that his wolf had wanted to howl for the boy. Because he had been a boy then, no matter what age he claimed to have, the way Stiles’ weak limbs had been dragging his body towards a destination only known to him, the stubbornness to it too similar to a child’s desperate search for it’s parent. When Peter had reached him, Stiles had fought, screaming about a clearing, about how he would be waiting for him there. It had taken him a couple of seconds to realize that Stiles wasn’t talking about him - he was talking about  _ him _ , about the Peter he had left behind in that other world, a world of pain, death and ash. 

 

Peter was dragged from his thoughts by the sound of a familiar heartbeat moving towards him, the smell of roasted coffee beans, leather and gun-oil filling his nose, near-silent footsteps closing in before warm arms settled across his shoulders.

 

“You need to rest, Peter.” Christopher whispered in his ear.

 

Leaning into the warmth the older man provided, Peter hummed. He should, of course, take the words to heart, but despite knowing that he wouldn’t be able to do anything for Stiles if he was dead on his feet, the idea that the omega should wake up alone made his wolf whine.

 

“I will.” Peter said before he dragged himself out of the warm embrace and continued to pace.

 

“Peter, look at me,” Chris sounded like he was two seconds away from simply throwing the wolf over his shoulder, like it was taking every piece of patience and strength he had not to, “Damn it, Peter, look at me!”

 

Whatever comment that had been ready to leave Peter’s mouth died on his tongue when he turned and looked at the older man. Chris looked exhausted, no doubt so from going round after round in reassuring the pups that everything was fine - that Stiles, the boy whom they had all taken underneath their wings, whom their wolfs had grown fond of, that he was fine. His normally warm eyes looked worn, dark circles running underneath them, putting another decade undeserved on the man. 

 

“You can’t do shit for him if you can’t take care of yourself, you hear me?” Chris’ words were sharp, cutting into Peter’s skin, “You need to get some sleep because - because goddamnit Peter, we need you to function. The kid’s going to be fine. But we need you to function now, the full moon is three days from now, and the pups need their alpha.”

 

Peter wanted to snark back, to throw barbs as good as he got them, but the respect and fondness he held for Chris stopped him. Instead he simply nodded at him, brushing their hands together as he walked past him and towards his bedroom. 

 

He had thought about Chris before. About what it would feel like to allow himself to fall into something with the other alpha, something that perhaps wouldn’t turn heads the same way it would have when they were young, but something still that would be different. New. He had thought about railing Chris in by his belt loops, thought about planting himself in the alpha’s lap for pack movie nights, thought about knocking on his bedroom door in the middle of the night. He had thought about it, but he knew he couldn’t. Not when he could feel Chris’ mourning still glowing like embers under his skin, a everpresent ache for his beloved wife, Victoria, the most vicious and courageous omega Peter had ever met. 

 

Victoria had been the reason that the Argent’s had joined the Hale pack, the force of nature she was, walking - waddling, really - up the driveway and to the house, one hand on her heavily pregnant belly and the other ready and coiled to press sharp fingers into the air in front of Peter’s nose. He could still see her if he closed his eyes. Hair as red as fire, blue eyes set as steel and a sneer lingering over her lips. She had demanded a place in his pack, for them both as well as their unborn child, with sharp words and a confident body language - nothing like the demur omegas Peter had been used to seeing. Peter had been bewitched from the start. It had taken her months to settle down with them, to ease herself into the life of always being surrounded by someone else, but in the end she had. She had gone from ever coiled body ready to rip their hearts out, to handing Peter the most precious thing in her life, her baby girl, Allison. After the child had been born Victoria seemed to take the mothering role, the role of denmaker, of provider of warm hugs and kisses to scraped knees. By the time Boyd, the first of the pups to join the pack, entered their lives with big ember glowing eyes and a roar about as terrifying as a mouse’s, Victoria had seemed to delve into the world of motherhood, of organic food and home baked cookies - though she still held the presence that she could, and would, kill you if she wanted to. 

 

Walking through his bedroom door, Peter thought about her - about her passion, her strength, her love of life. He also thought about her death. He thought about how they had known something was wrong by the way Chris tensed up, the way he ripped the phone from the wall, cord twirling loosely around his forearm as he tried repeatedly to call her - the way the police officers who came to inform them of the accident looked like they were seconds away from running away. Peter couldn’t do anything besides stand there and watch as Chris’ soul broke, as he realized that his mate wouldn’t come home, that his child’s mother wouldn’t be coming back. Chris had been destroyed that day, shattered in a million pieces that even Allison, sweet little Allison who had just celebrated her 14th birthday, couldn’t put back together - leaving nothing behind except the broken shell of a man. It had seemed like during the course of one hour, Peter had gone from alpha extraordinare to alpha-and-father-substitute, the pups who had before leaned on Victoria and Chris now fluttering to him like moths to a light, and he had wondered if the responsibility would drown him. Three years later and he had figured out a way to doggy paddle to keep his head over water - though there was a point, where Allison and Erica had come to talk about sudden  _ changes  _ within their bodies, that Peter thought would be the end - and with Chris helping out once more, taking some of the responsibility of the adult, life seemed like it was moving on. 

 

As he laid in bed that night, Peter sent an unusual prayer to higher powers he didn’t even believe in, begging them to not take Stiles. If not only so that the boy with the sweet scent and doe eyes would live, then so that life wouldn’t stop once more, so that the pups shouldn’t have to feel the painful reminder of grief once more - not this soon, not whilst they were still feeling it so freshly over Victoria. Closing his eyes and letting darkness take him, Peter thought about her - he thought about Victoria, and he wondered how she would have handled the situation.

 

\---

 

Stiles had never been the outdoorsy, camping loving, bugs collecting kind of kid. He hadn’t been the type of child to relish in the outdoors and all it’s wonders, hadn’t been the one who wanted to learn everything that the wilderness of nature had to show him - instead, he’d been the child with his nose stuck in a comic book, or a regular book, or even on occasion his mother’s old fashion magazines. When his mother had gotten sick he’d spent most of his time at the hospital, and despite his parent’s gentle prodding, he wouldn’t change it - wouldn’t sacrifice their Thursday afternoons for joining the boy’s scouts - not when despite their best attempts to keep him in the dark, he overheard words that wasn’t meant for his young ears. Words like _ terminal, fatal  _ and _ life expectancy. _ He had never regretted it, never looked back and thought that those days at the library should have been spent outside in the woods, that those days where Scott and he had barricaded themselves in their bedrooms to play videogames for hours and hours should have been spent learning the way of nature. Stiles had never regretted those days. Though when the world ended he sometimes found himself wondering, in the dead of the night, if things would have been different had he not spent so much time ignoring the world. If he had joined the boy scouts, would it have made it easier now - would the concept of hunting his own food, of starting fires, of making a field latrine, easier? 

 

Somewhere around three months after the world had gone to complete and utter shit, the adults had decided that the teenagers needed to learn how to develop lifesaving skills - and despite the fact that no one said it, everyone knew it was in case one of them died, that the rest of them should survive and not find themselves facing a situation requiring skills they didn’t have. John, Chris, Peter and Melissa all held skills that would come in handy - and it was decided that the kids should split up, and trace one of the adults footsteps for a week each, before moving along to another adult and another skillset.

 

Melissa taught them how to look for infections, how to stitch up wounds, how to see the difference between a broken bone and a fractured one. She taught them how to put enough pressure to stop a bleeding, how to perform CPR, how to mend their clothes and how sometimes the best medicine you could give someone was a hug. 

 

Peter taught them the way of the woods. Taught them how to recognize the weaker animals, the old and the young, taught them how to outsmart them, out run them. He taught the younger wolves how to control themselves, how to allow the wolf out to play but always bring it back - always keep it under control. He taught them how to notice the signs of predators closing in. 

 

His father taught them how to protect themselves from other humans and wolves. Taught them how to go through fist to fist combat and win. Taught them how to make a fire, one that wouldn’t leave smoketrails for everyone to see, one who wouldn’t get out of control. Taught them how to read a map and use a compass. He taught them the necessity of checking up on each other, to communicate, to stop and listen.

 

Christopher taught them survival. He taught them how to find drinkable water, how to filter and boil it. He taught them how to make basic weapons, how to find shelter, how to safely climb trees to avoid predators. He taught them how to know when, if and where to hide. How to make snares, set traps and use slingshots.

 

Learning it all had been a challenge, despite Stiles’ never ending curiosity it was like a part of his brain just didn’t want to accept the information handed to it, like it had shocked him when it turned out that the end of the world wasn’t as pretty as the movies would make it seem. Girls didn’t have perfectly styled makeup and eyebrows - except somehow Lydia did, and Stiles was sure that was only because of some sort of blood sacrifice and dark magic - and prey animals didn’t just jump out in front of you, begging you to kill and eat them. 

 

It had all come to a screeching halt one day. He couldn’t say what was so different with this day, how come this time was the straw to break the camel's back. He had been trying to set a snare near a rabbits burrow - steadily ignoring the small voice at the back of his head whispering that he needed to prove his worth, that he was dragging the rest of them behind, that he would eventually be the one to get them all hurt - and he’d been so concentrated that he hadn’t heard the sniffling coming from behind him. He hadn’t noticed until it was too late, until a twig snapped by his side and a pair of black boots entered his sights. He didn’t bother turning his head to look, didn’t bother double checking, his father’s lessons too fresh in his mind - “When in doubt, run to safety” - and he did run, through underbrush and twigs scraping at his skin, lungs on fire. A muffled curse sounded behind him, and despite the fact that he knew that voice, knew the safety it provided, but his brain just wouldn’t accept it. He couldn’t stop running. When a strong pair of arms surrounded his waist he wanted to scream, and he tried, but his breath was coming too fast for his voice to squeeze out.

 

“Stiles, calm down! I didn’t mean to scare you,” Chris’ breath was warm on the side of his face, his chest hard against Stiles’ back, “I’m sorry for scaring you. You’re okay.”

 

Stiles couldn’t  _ breathe _ . He knew that it was illogical, that he shouldn’t be reacting like this, that he couldn’t afford to react like this, not now, not anymore. The world was ending, damn it, he had to grow up - but no matter how much he tried telling himself that, no matter how soft Chris’ whispered reassurances was, he couldn’t force his lungs to draw in a deep breath and hold it. He couldn’t stop his hands from clawing at Chris’ arms, couldn’t stop his body from shaking, his teeth from rattling. 

 

“Breathe, Stiles. Just breathe,” Chris sat them down on the ground, arms firmly around Stiles’ waist, hands spread out to cup his ribs, “Breathe with me now, in, two three four, out, five six seven. Rinse and repeat.” 

 

Stiles didn’t know how long they sat there, how long Chris rocked them from side to side, whispering soft words and counting their breaths. Eventually his breath calmed, his body relaxing, muscles uncoiling, a weary drowsiness setting in under his skin. Ever so often Chris’ hands would wander up to his face and wipe the tears that seemed unending in their trip down his cheeks. 

 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Stiles whispered, closing his eyes, tiredly nuzzling his face into the crook of Chris’ neck.

 

“Nothing’s wrong with you, kid,” Chris said, “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

 

Stiles drew a deep breath, taking in the scent of Chris and woods and the rain lingering in the air, the promise of it. The world was ending, and Stiles had never been an outdoorsy kind of child, he had never seen the beauty to be found in nature, nor had he ever wanted to. The world was ending, and in an unsafe everyday life where the feeling of fear might be the only thing to keep you on your toes, to keep you alive, Stiles was able to nuzzle his nose into a warm throat and feel completely safe. Perhaps it was illogical, maybe it was wrong, but in that moment Stiles  _ knew _ , he knew that come hell or high water, he was safe in Chris’ arms. At least for a while.

 

“You didn’t scare me.” Stiles whispered.

 

\---

 

The memories were threatening to overwhelm him, to pull him under and never let him go, to drown him. When the world had ended, when he’d been knees deep in mud and God only knew what else, dragging himself onwards in hopes of getting another meal, Stiles would have sworn that if there ever came a day where he managed to overcome this, where the world changed yet again, that he wouldn’t miss it for a second. He could have sworn that he would never look back at it and feel nostalgia hit him in the chest. But lying in a bed that wasn’t really his, in a house that wasn’t his, in a world that wasn’t his, listening to the voices of the pack that was his but wasn’t his at the same time - Stiles did miss it. He missed the end of the world, because that was so much easier.

 

_ “When in doubt, run to safety - and when I say that, I don’t mean if you’re not sure if the berries in your hands are edible should you completely panic - but I’m saying that if you find yourself in a situation where you don’t know that you’ll survive? Then you use your legs as they were given to you, and you run, you run and you find someone who can help you get out of that situation. You run to safety. And remember, the greatest safety of them all, is that which you’ll find in numbers.”  _

 

His dad’s voice echoed in his head, over and over, playing the same lecture. If Stiles closed his eyes he could see him walking back and forth in front of them, looking exactly like the sheriff he had been, face serious and voice even. With the threat of a new wave of memories wanting to pull him under, Stiles found himself following his dad’s orders, found himself pushing the blanket of his body and slowly easing himself into a seated position. It took him longer than it should have, with his body feeling like it was weighed down by bricks, but he made it. He made it to the bedroom door and when he opened it, he didn’t have to search any longer.

 

“When in doubt, run to safety.” Stiles whispered, looking straight into Peter’s blue eyes.


	6. Non sum qualis eram

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone.
> 
>  
> 
> If you're reading this you've either stumbled across my fic post-posting, or you're of the blessed ones whose been with me from the get'go. If you're in the latter group, you've probably realized that this fic hasn't been updated in, well, a while. Sadly my real life has this awkward habit of catching up with me, and along side with the fact that my heart jumps fandoms like other people jump on trampolines, I really haven't felt like writing anything on this fic. I deeply apologize for that. I know that I've put "On Hiatus" in the tags, but I wanted to give you all an explanation as well as a small parting gift before I officially put this fic on hiatus. I am not abandoning it. I promise to return to it one day, despite not being able to give you an exact date. This chapter also happens to be shorter than what I've normally posted, but I do hope that you enjoy it, and that you find pleasure in this fic. 
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> I've also started a multi-fandom discord chat-room called [Fandom Hell](https://discord.gg/7Sa4b4D), and if any of you want to come and scream at me either about this fic, or something else, or you simply want new and more friends within fandoms, you are more than welcome to [join us](https://discord.gg/7Sa4b4D). Who knows, maybe you'll end up enjoying your stay and finding more friends within all your fandoms?
> 
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> 
> Oh well. I'll stop this impossibly long authors note now and simply let you read the fic. I wish you all an amazing 2017, and I hope to see you soon.
> 
> Best of luck and all of my love, Cutie.

_I am not the kind of person I once was._

 

 

* * *

 

 

__  
  


 

“What brings you here today, Stiles?” 

Doctor Janine P. Woodland was a middle-aged female beta with a specialization in Omega-Psychology. With black hair contrasting the distinct paleness of her skin and the dark brown of her eyes, she reminded Stiles more of a vampire than a compassionate ear, her tight lipped smiles doing nothing to discourage the idea. Still, she seemed to make an attempt, and folded her limbs into her chair in a lazy slouch that was probably meant to look natural, but missed the target by a mile. Stiles had a fleeting thought when he’d first met her that perhaps Peter was punishing him for something, maybe this was all a joke, but the longer he spent in her company the more he felt his hackles rise. Even her scent didn’t agree with him - filled with hints of pepper that made him want to sneeze - despite what he’d come to learn was an attempt to soothe her scent with scent blocking deodorant. 

“Peter asked me to.” Stiles said.

He knew that his body language screamed that he was on the defence, could see it in the way she oh-so-carefully shifted away from him - a lesson in how to recognize human behavior drilled into his head by  _ his  _ Chris too long ago - and despite his best attempts he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t raise his chin, his new instincts reeling at the very thought of exposing his throat, and he couldn’t force himself to look her in the eyes. Instead, he focused on his hands, the way his fingers would twist and pull on the fabric of the hoodie he had stolen from Peter’s laundry - much to the alpha’s resignation - just minutes before they had to leave. With every pull he got a new sniff of Peter’s scent, and if he closed his eyes he could practically feel the alpha’s warmth surrounding him, shielding him.

“Is that the only reason why you’re here today, Stiles?” Dr.Woodland’s voice broke through the safe place Peter’s scent provided. “Because I can’t help you unless you want me to.”

Stiles closed his eyes and thought about it. Thought about how, even despite Peter’s rut having been a whole month ago, he still wasn’t over the fact that he hadn’t been allowed to see the alpha for a week, how he’d practically spent the entire time stuck outside the door of the rut room. He thought about how Erica and Isaac had gotten into a fight when Stiles made peanut butter cookies and there was only one left, how Isaac had somehow ended up bleeding and Stiles had panicked, the fear of an infection somehow touching the wolf too much to bear. He thought about how he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a decent night of sleep. He thought about how he had to force himself to eat, food turning to ash in his mouth, feeling like broken glass down his throat. He didn’t think about his dad. He didn’t think about his home. He didn’t think about his pack. He didn’t think about  _ his  _ Peter.

“Stiles?”

He opened his eyes. Took a breath.

“I… I think I’d like to get help.”

…

Stiles didn’t know how you were supposed to feel after an appointment with your therapist, the self-help books he’d skimmed whilst out shopping with Erica didn’t say, but he hoped that this wouldn’t be a recurring theme. He felt empty. Like someone had taken all the lights in the world and dimmed them, leaving him to fumble in the dusk. Even Lydia’s normally soothing scent didn’t do anything to aid his mood, and the car ride back to the Hale mansion was quiet, with the only sound disturbing them some girl singing about her heartbreak and how she wished it good morning every day.

When they finally reached the mansion, and Stiles found Peter pacing back and forth in his office, the omega simply walked straight into the alpha, gripping the back of his shirt in tight fists, pushing his face into the older man’s neck.

“I take it that the session didn’t go well, then?” Peter asked, hands stroking over the back of Stiles’ head and neck.

“It wasn’t...terrible.” Stiles mumbled, nuzzling closer, trying to infuse himself in Peter’s scent,

Peter merely hummed and started rocking their bodies in a slow rhythm, reminding Stiles of a parent comforting their child. Stiles wasn’t sure how long they stood there, his nose firmly pressed into the curve of the alpha’s neck, drawing in the protection and calm that only Peter seemed able to provide, when there was a quick knock on the door. Stiles reluctantly withdrew from the heat of Peter’s arms to open the door, coming face to face with a grim looking Erica, blonde curls drawn up in a messy bun on the top of her head.

“Pack run?” She asked, holding herself, her scent filled with grief, “Lydia said that we should do a pack run?”

Stiles could feel, more than hear, Peter walk up behind him, the solid line of heat at his back just seconds before Peter’s face came next to his, staring at Erica with a soft look.

“Did she now? And you think that you’re able to run,” Peter sounded skeptical as he sized her up, looking at her from her bright pink bunny slippers to her pajamas shorts and crop-top, “dressed like that?”

Erica merely twitched her head to the side and shifted her eyes, a deep beta golden color shining at them, and Stiles didn’t have to turn his head to know that Peter’s would be a matching alpha red. Full shift runs then.

“Very well, pup,” Peter growled as he started leading Stiles out into the hall, closing the office door behind them, “pack runs it is.”

…

Dances with wolves had always been one of Stiles’ favorite movies as a child, mostly due to John’s influence, as a father introducing his love for western to his son. Kevin Costner had been Stiles’ childhood hero as he walked over the prairie hills with a wolf at his heels, for how brave didn’t he have to be to do that? Stiles had often tried re-enacting the scenes using the sheriff station’s K9 unit, much to the officers’ amusement. After Scott got bitten however, he found that what Kevin Costner had done had been simple child’s play. How was he supposed to feel that walking with a dog-sized wolf trotting several feet away from you could even come close to being surrounded by full-shifted werewolves? Back then - back when he was still simply Stiles Stilinski, pack human and the erratic son- he hadn’t understood the real potential of running with wolves, despite often running for his life with the pack running beside him. 

This pack, his old-new pack, did things in a highly different manner. 

The run would always be started by the youngest betas shifting in the back yard, Peter standing protectively in front of the pack humans in case any instincts went haywire in the new body, until the wolves gave some sign that only Peter seemed able to interpret that meant that everything was clear. Only then would the alpha himself shed his clothes and shift, one moment a man, the next a sleek black wolf, standing as tall as Stiles’ ribs. Much to the pack’s amusement, Stiles tended to shield his eyes as soon as people started shedding their clothes, though both Lydia and Allison had given him approving pats on the back the first time it happened.

After all the wolves had shifted, they tended to stay close to their human pack members, rotating between them, scenting each other as well as the humans. Then they would run. The first time it happened Stiles had been unable to shake the feeling of wrong, of danger, of run-safety-run, and had ended up curled into a fetal position on the ground, gasping for air, only to come to his senses with the entire pack curled around him. After that, he’d learned to take it easy. To recognize the joy of running simply to run, to feel his body moving, to be able to stretch out his fingertips and feel the soft fur of one of the wolves. They always ended up heaped together in a big pile of bodies afterwards, unable to figure out which limb belonged to whom, everyone touching each other at least at one spot, if not more. 

That was Stiles’ favorite part. Lying on the forest floor, chest heaving with heavy breaths, endorphins rushing through his system as he was surrounded by the heat only four wolves and four humans provided. Resting his head on Boyd’s side, he looked up at the trees, idly petting Erica’s head from where she’d claimed the space of his stomach. This run had been different, more filled with nostalgia and the need to confirm that every pack member was present, the entire pack on edge. Allison had explained it before they started running, looking at him with red-rimmed eyes and a scent filled with grief. She’d explained that it was the anniversary of her mother’s death. That they would run until their lungs hurt, and when they cuddled up, they would talk about her. About who she was, the love she gave and the pain they were left with when she died.

It was Chris who broke the silence first, strong voice nearly breaking on his wife’s name, as he laid on his back, snuggled up with Allison on his right shoulder and Peter curled around his left side.

“Victoria was the love of my life. She was the mother of my child. She was an extraordinary omega. She was  _ terrible  _ at making pancakes.”

The silence that came after the admission seemed deafening, and Stiles could practically hear his own heartbeat, until the last thing he expected happened. Allison giggled.

“Remember the time she nearly burned down the kitchen because she tried making chocolate pancakes and didn’t realize that she’d burned them?” Allison whispered, words nearly inaudible over the packs snorting. “I still can’t understand how she didn’t notice the burning smell.”

Lydia entered the conversation, sharing bits and pieces of her memories of Victoria with them, like how she’d always put on blood red lipstick on Sundays before going to church, simply because the priest had stated that neither Lydia or Allison would ever find a mate due to their tendency to paint their faces. Chris told them about how she had once tried defending him from a female beta in a bar, and that he couldn’t go into details, but there was a reason she was unwelcome in the state of Alaska by the time Allison came along. Allison talked about sitting on her mom’s lap, about a soft voice singing lullabies to her, about softer hands stroking her hair.

And then Allison started singing.

_ I stumbled across your picture today _

_ I could barely breathe _

_ The moment stopped me cold, _

_ Grabbed me like a thief. _

_ I dialed your number, but you wouldn't be there _

_ I knew the whole time, but it's still not fair _

_ I just wanted to hear your voice, _

_ I just needed to hear your voice. _

_ What do I do with all I need to say _

_ So much I wanna tell you everyday _

_ Oh it breaks my heart, _

_ I cry these tears in the dark _

_ I write these letters to you,  _

_ But they get lost in the blue, _

_ 'Cause there's no address in the stars. _

_ Now I'm drivin' _

_ Through the pitch black dark  _

_ I'm screaming at the sky  _

_ Oh cause it hurts so bad  _

_ Everybody tells me  _

_ Oh all I need is time  _

_ Then the mornin' rolls in  _

_ And it hits me again _

_ And that ain't nothin' but a lie. _

_ What do I do with all I need to say _

_ So much I wanna tell you everyday _

_ Oh it breaks my heart, _

_ I cry these tears in the dark _

_ I write these letters to you,  _

_ But they get lost in the blue, _

_ 'Cause there's no address in the stars. _

_ Without you here with me,  _

_ I don't know what to do. _

_ I'd give anything _

_ Just to talk to you _

_ Oh it breaks my heart, _

_ Oh it breaks my heart, _

_ All I can do  _

_ Is write these letters to you, _

_ But there's no address in the stars. _

__  
  


Stiles couldn’t didn’t realize he was crying until he felt Erica lifting her head to nuzzle his cheeks, licking away his tears, a soft whine coming from her throat. It felt like his heart was finally accepting what his brain had somehow grasped weeks ago. He was here. He was with this pack. For some reason, he got sent to this pack, to this world, and whilst he could spend all his time grieving the ones he’d lost, he couldn’t picture them appreciating that. 

He had promised his father that he would make it. He had promised Lydia that he would survive. He had promised Peter that he would be okay. And here he was, tossing those promises in their faces, spitting on the dirt in front of their memories. He couldn’t get his old pack back, he couldn’t get  _ his  _ pack, but he did have  _ this  _ pack. He had this pack, and he’d been blind to the fact that one of his pack members had been in such pain. He had been so focused on pitying himself that he hadn’t even tried considering what was happening with them.

Reaching up to rub his fists into his eyes, Stiles made a mental vow, to himself, to his old pack, and to his new one. 

He would survive. And he would make damn sure that this pack did so too. And he would make sure that they glowed, each and every one of them. Stiles had been through hell and he had kept on walking, and now it was time that he tried helping those who were currently stumbling beside him. Reaching out, he grasped for Allison’s hand across the top of Isaac’s body, squeezing it in his, hoping that she got the message.

…

Later that night, when they had gotten back to the house and were all ready to climb into bed, Stiles stopped Allison with a soft touch to her elbow.

“Hey, I’ve been thinking. My therapist isn’t all that bad, you know? Do you think that you might wanna come with me next time?”

The soft smile he got was worth more than any attempted comfort Dr. Woodland could ever come up with. 

It wasn’t much. But it was a start. A new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I want to thank the amazing, the one and only, Dena for helping me with this fic. You are my sunshine, darling, and I love you.
> 
> The song Allison sings is "Address in the stars" by Caitlin and Will.
> 
> See you when I see you, darlings.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me at [Tumblr](http://www.cute-as-hale.tumblr.com)! Comments and kudos makes my insides tingle! ;)


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